"Let me give you a shampoo and a touch up."

d.i.c.k shook his head impatiently, and lay back, a shadow of his former self.

"You'd better!"

"Don't worry me, Jerry! You said you had some news."

"It's a letter," said the man, looking at him curiously.

"A letter?" cried d.i.c.k, starting; but the interest he took was only momentary, and his eyes half-closed again.

"Yes, a letter. I've had it two days, and didn't like to give it to you before."

"Why not?"

Jerry took a note from his breast, and held it so that the invalid could see first that it was not addressed, the envelope being blank; and then, slowly turning it round, so that d.i.c.k could see a crest stamped in colours upon the back.

That had its effect, for a flush came into the invalid's hollow cheeks, and he glared at Jerry.

"Where did you get that?" he cried.

"He give it me."

"Well?"

"To give to you. I see him the day before yesterday, and he told me to come to his rooms, and asked me about the bandsman whom the fellows said saved three people, and what your name might be. Then he asked if it was you who pulled him out, and I said it was, feeling quite queer the while; for it seemed so strange that you should have saved his life after all as took place. Then he set down at his table, looking not a bit the worse, asked how you spell your name, and I told him Richard Smithson, and he wrote this and sent it by me."

"Do you know what's in it?"

Jerry nodded.

"Then he recognised me?"

"No--he don't even know that he ever see you."

"But he seemed to know me at the ball."

"Oh, no! he didn't know you. He thinks you're dead as dead."

"But you say you know what is in that note?"

"Oh, yes!"

"You've read it?"

"Not that."

"What do you mean?"

Jerry took a closely-folded newspaper from his pocket.

"_Ratcham, Dolchester, and Froude Magnet_, sir--Richard Smithson," he read, and then doubling it closely, held it out, pointing to a paragraph.

"My eyes swim. I don't understand what you mean, Jerry."

"Shall I read it, sir?"

"Yes."

Jerry coughed and then began:--

"The Late Fire at the Barracks.--We understand that Lieutenant Sir Mark Frayne, of the 310th, has presented Smithson, the gallant young bandsman of the 205th Fusiliers, with a handsome cheque as a memento of his prowess daring the catastrophe after the military ball was nearly over.

Smithson, we are glad to say, is convalescent."

d.i.c.k's eyes contracted, and he stared hard at Jerry.

"That's the way some folks do it. That's what they call advertising.

Proper way. Never give anything till people's looking on, and if they won't see, put it in the paper, and then they'll read."

"Open that envelope," said d.i.c.k, sharply, and Jerry obeyed, taking out slowly a sheet of paper, from which fell a cheque.

"Shall I read, sir?" asked Jerry.

"Yes," said d.i.c.k, in a more decisive way than he had displayed since the night of the ball.

"'With Sir Mark Frayne's best wishes to the brave soldier who saved his life.' Sounds handsome, don't it? 'Messrs. Roots and Company, pay Richard Smithson, or order, Five Pounds.'"

Jerry glanced at d.i.c.k, who lay back now, with his eyes closed, looking very stern.

"It's too much," said Jerry. "Five pound! Fippence is about all his life's worth?"

"Have you a box of matches?"

"Yes; want a smoke, sir?"

"Light a match."

Jerry obeyed, struck a light, and held the cheque in one hand, the wax taper in the other.

"Burn it," said d.i.c.k, shortly.

"It's fi' pounds, sir; and you may want it."

"Burn it!" cried d.i.c.k, sternly.

"Well, it's your own, and you've a right to do as you like with it,"

said Jerry; and the thin sc.r.a.p of paper was held to the flame, burned till the man's fingers were in danger, and then fell slowly to the floor as so much tinder.