e the faintest glimmer of regret, or the faintest trace of the
old affection, he would have stayed and braved all consequences. But
there was neither. The spell that bound Tom Drift, his fear of being
thought a milksop, had changed him utterly, and as Charlie's eyes turned
with pleading look to his they met only with menace and confusion.

"Go!" repeated Tom, driven nearly wild by the mocking laugh in which
Mortimer and his two companions joined.

This, then, was the end of their friendship--so full of hope on one
side, so full of promise on the other.

It was a strange moment in the lives of those two. To one it was the
wilful throwing away of the last and best chance of deliverance, to the
other it was the cruel extinction of a love and trust that had till now
bid fair to stand the wear of years to come.

"Get out, I say!" said Tom Drift, once more goaded to madness by the
pitying sneers of Mortimer.

Charlie stayed no longer. Half stunned, and scarcely knowing what he
did, with one wild, mute prayer at his heart, he turned without a word
and left the room.

Tom's friends followed his departure with mocking laughter, and watched
his slowly retreating figure down the street with many a foul jest, and
then returned to congratulate Tom Drift on his deliverance.

"Well," said Gus, "you are well rid of _him_, at any rate. What a lucky
thing we turned up just when we did! He'd have snivelled you into a
shocking condition. Why, what a weak-minded fellow Tom is; ain't he,
Jack?"

"Wathah," replied Jack, with a laugh.

Meanwhile Tom had abandoned even himself. He hated his friends, he
hated himself, he hated Charlie and cursed himself for having ever
allowed him within his doors. He took no notice of Gus's gibes for a
long time. At last, "Ugh!" said he, "never mind if I'm weak-minded or
not, I'm sick of all this. Suppose we go off to the supper, and I'll
stand treat afterwards at the music-hall?"

And crushing his hat on his head, he dashed out of the house utterly
reckless and desperate.

Need I say my thoughts were with the poor injured boy, who, stung with
ingratitude, robbed of his friend, and ill with mingled pity, dread, and
sorrow, walked slowly down the street away from Tom's lodgings? Ah!
when should I see his face or hear his voice again now?

At the supper that evening Tom drank often and deeply, and of all the
party his shout rose highest and his laugh drowned all the others. They
led hi