h had a newspaper that he turned over eagerly, and
Bertie could not help wishing that he too had something to read, though
I think he would have preferred either Don Quixote or Robinson Crusoe.
Then he fell to wondering what Eddie and Agnes were doing: whether they
were on the beach reading or sketching, and thinking how nice it would
be to meet them at the station on next Saturday afternoon, when they
purposed returning home, have the cabs all engaged, and then go back
with them to Fitzroy Square. After a time his head fell back into the
corner, and from thinking, Bertie fell into a pleasant dream, from which
he was aroused by a gentle touch. A gentleman was searching for a small
bag, which had slipped behind Bertie.

"Sorry to trouble you; thanks," he said, when he had found it. Then
leaning forward towards the gentleman opposite, he took out a packet of
papers neatly tied up. "It's very provoking," he said. "I came down here
on Saturday to get the governor's signature, and could not find trace or
tidings of him. He left an hour before I arrived, and if I don't find
him somewhere in town to-day, it will be a serious loss to our firm."

"You can afford it," the gentleman said, smiling.

"Yes; but our manager will be none the less angry about it. However, I
can't help it;" and then they talked about the money market and other
matters, till Bertie fell asleep again, and did not awake till they
reached London Bridge. There Mr. Gregory saw him, and gave him a seat in
his hansom, and the last thing Bertie saw as he left the platform was
the gentleman with his little black bag in his hand, hurrying along as
if for his life.

Bertie was very busy that morning: there were a great many letters to be
addressed and notices copied out; his uncle seemed hasty and impatient,
spoke harshly, and once or twice said he believed Bertie had left his
brains in Brighton. Then the office was very stuffy and gloomy, for
though the day was bright enough outside, very little sunshine found its
way through the dusty ground glass windows of the office in Mincing
Lane. Never in his life had Bertie so longed for luncheon-time; his head
ached, and more than once a great lump seemed to grow suddenly in his
throat as he thought of his past holidays; but the City at luncheon-time
is not the best possible place for dreaming or moping, and before he had
gone a hundred yards from the office door he came into violent collision
with a gentleman running d