"Old man, you can keep a secret, can't you?"
"Yes," I said, wondering what was coming.
"I've never told it to anybody yet; but somehow it's awful having no one
to talk to," he said.
"What is it, Jack?" I asked. "I won't tell a soul."
He crept closer to me, and his voice dropped to a lower whisper as he
said, "Fred--_my father is a convict_!"
I was too bewildered and shocked to speak. All I could do was to take
the hand which lay on my arm and hold it in mine. This then was Jack's
mystery. This explained his nervous avoidance of all references to
home, his sudden changes of manner both at Stonebridge House and in
London. Poor Jack!
We neither of us spoke for some time; then, as if in answer to the
questions I longed to ask, he continued, "I hardly ever saw him. When
mother died he went nearly mad and took to drinking, so Mrs Shield told
me, and left home. No one heard of him again till it was discovered he
had forged on his employers. I remember their coming and looking for
him at M--, where we then lived. He wasn't there, but they found him in
London, and,"--here Jack groaned--"he was transported."
"Poor Jack!" was all I could say. "How dreadful for you all!"
We said no more that night, but as we lay arm in arm, and presently fell
asleep, I think we both felt we were bound together that night by a
stronger tie than ever.
Yet, had I known what was to come, I would sooner have rushed from that
house than allow my friend Smith to tell me his secret.