Two days after the events recorded in the last chapter something
happened which materially affected the course of my life in London.
Smith and I were just starting off to the office, after having finally
made our submission to Mrs Nash, and induced her, with a promise "never
to do it again," to withdraw her threat to turn us out, when the postman
appeared coming round the corner.
It was a comparatively rare sight in Beadle Square, and Jack and I
naturally felt our curiosity excited.
"May as well see if there's anything for me," said I, who had only once
heard from my affectionate relative in six months.
Jack laughed. "I never saw such a fellow," said he, "for expecting
things. It's just as likely there's a letter for me as for you."
At this moment the postman came up with a letter in his hand in apparent
perplexity.
"Anything for me?" I said.
"Not unless your name's Smith," said the postman. "Smith of Beadle
Square, that's the party--might as well send a letter to a straw in a
haystack."
"My name's Smith," said Jack.
"Is it?" said the postman, evidently relieved. "Then I suppose it's all
right."
So saying he placed the letter in Jack's hand and walked on, evidently
quite proud to have found out a Smith at first shot.
Jack's colour changed as he took the letter and looked at it.
He evidently recognised the cramped, ill-formed hand in which it was
addressed.
"It's from Packworth!" he exclaimed, as he eagerly tore open the
envelope.
I don't think he intended the remark for me, for we had never once
referred either to his home or his relatives since the first day we were
together in London. In fact, I had almost come to forget that my friend
Smith had a home anywhere but in Beadle Square.
He glanced rapidly over the short scrawl, and as he did so his face
turned pale and a quick exclamation escaped his lips.
"Anything wrong, old man?" I asked.
"Yes," said he, looking up with a face full of trouble. "Here, you can
see it," he added, putting the letter into my hand.