The old man looked up at him from under his wrinkled lids, and fumbled at his mouth in a cautious sort of a way. "I'm very sorry things have gone on so crooked up at the Hurst, Master Jack," he said, respectfully. "But not more sorry than I am, Skettle, thank you." "I'm afraid it's rather unexpected, Master Jack," he continued, his small, keen eyes fixed, not on Jack, but on his second waistcoat-button, counting from the top. "Well, yes, it is," said Jack, tugging at his mustache. "Very much so. I've got a hit in the bread-basket this time, Skettle, and I'm on my back again." Old Skettle looked a keen glance at the handsome face and frank eyes that were looking rather ruefully at the ground. "Hitting below the belt is not considered fair, is it, Master Jack?" he asked. "Eh, what?" said Jack, who had not been paying much attention. "No, according to the rules; but what do you mean by the question? You are always such a mysterious old idiot, you know. You can't help it, I suppose." Old Skettle smiled, if the extraordinary contortion of the wrinkled face could be called by so flattering a designation. "I've seen such mysterious things since I first went into Mr. Hudsley's office to sweep the floor----" "Now, then," said Jack, "none of that game; going into the old story, which I have heard a hundred times, of how you went as an office boy, and have risen to the proud position of confidential clerk. You're like one of the old fellows in the play, who draws a chair up to the footlights, and says, 'It's seven long years ago----' and the people begin to clear out into the refreshment bar, and wait there till he's done. Where were you? Oh, 'mysterious experiences.' Well, go on." But old Skettle had, apparently, nothing to say; he had, while Jack had been speaking, changed his mind. "I beg pardon for stopping you, Master Jack," he said. "I felt I couldn't let you go out of the old place without expressing my sympathy." "Thanks, thanks," said Jack, holding out his hand. "You're one of the right sort, Skettle, and so's Hudsley. I believe he's sorry, too. Looks a little puzzled, too. Puzzled isn't the word for what I feel. I've got the sensation one experiences when he's been sitting through one of the old-fashioned melo-dramas. Not even a mourning-ring, or a walking-stick. Poor Squire--well, I forgive him. He had a right to do what he liked with his own." "Just so, Master Jack, but it's hard for you," said Skettle. "Not a mourning-ring. By the way, sir," and something like a blush crept over his wrinkled face. "If--if you should be in want of a little money----" Jack stared, then laughed grimly. "Well, you certainly must be mad, Skettle," he interrupted. "Want money! When didn't I want it? But don't you be idiot enough to lend me any. It would be a jolly bad speculation, old fellow. There is not a Jew in London would take my paper. No, Skettle, it would be downright robbery, and I don't think I could rob you, you know."