had once asked him for a
loan, and he had refused it, on the ground he never lent money to
anybody.

"The only thing," said Jack, "is to write home to your uncle."

I could scarcely help smiling at the idea. I knew my uncle better than
Jack Smith did, and I might as well hope to get blood out of a stone as
expect him to pay for my extravagances in London.

However, Jack was so sure it was the right and only thing to do that I
finally consented to sit down and make a clean breast of it, which I did
in the following note:--

"Dear Uncle,--I am better now, and back at work. I am sorry to say,
however, I am in a good deal of difficulty about money. Before my
illness I had got into extravagant ways and run into debt. I enclose a
list of what I believe I owe at the present moment. You will see--not
including the doctor's bill--it comes to L10 2 shillings 4 pence. The
names marked with a star are clerks at the office who have lent me
money, I am sorry to say, for gambling and other purposes. I don't know
what to do about paying them back. I thought if you wouldn't mind
advancing the amount I could pay you back so much a week out of my
salary. I hope and trust you will help me in my difficulty. I need
hardly say I have seen the folly of my old ways, and am determined to
live carefully and economically in future. Do please write by return
and help me.

"Your affect. nephew,--

"Fred. Batchelor."

Jack approved of this effusion as businesslike and to the point.

"You haven't gone out of the way to excuse yourself," said he, "and I
dare say it will go down all the better for that. If he doesn't write
and send up the money I shall be surprised."

Poor Jack! A lot he knew about uncles of my sort!

However, I felt more comfortable to have written the letter, and if I
could only have been sure Wallop's threat was mere idle bluster I should
have slept easily.

As it was, I had had rather a stirring day for my first one out, and at
the end of it felt a good deal less game for work than at the beginning.
Nothing could exceed Jack's tenderness and anxiety to relieve me of as
much worry as possible. When I was in bed he came and read aloud to me.
It was Virgil he read--which he was working at for his examination.
And I remember that evening lying half awake, half asleep, listening now
to him, thinking now of my debts, mixing up Aeneas with Wallop, and Mr
Shoddy with Laocoon, and poor old Priam with my uncle.