"Oh, yes," said Bones feebly, as he ran his finger inside his collar, "that's all!"
"What do you think, Bones?" said Hamilton gently.
"Well, dear old cloud on the horizon," said Bones, clasping his bony knee, "it looks remarkably like serious trouble for B. Ones, Esquire. It does indeed. Of course," he said, "you're not in this, old Ham. This was a private speculation----"
"Rot!" said Hamilton contemptuously. "You're never going to try a dirty trick like that on me? Of course I'm in it. If you're in it, I'm in it."
Bones opened his mouth to protest, but subsided feebly. He looked at the clock, sighed, and lowered his eyes again.
"I suppose it's too late to cancel the contract now?"
"Twenty-four hours, poor old victim," he said miserably, "expired at five p.m."
Walking across, he tapped his partner on the shoulder.
"Well, Bones, it can't be helped, and probably our pal in Dundee has taken an extravagant view."
"Not he," said Bones, "not he, dear old cheerer. Well, we shall have to cut down expenses, move into a little office, and start again, dear old Hamilton."
"Not quite so bad as that," admitted Bones. "But one thing," he said with sudden energy, "one thing, dear old thing, I'll never part with. Whatever happens, dear old boy, rain or shine, sun or moon, stars or any old thing like that"--he was growing incoherent--"I will never leave my typewriter, dear old thing. I will never desert her--never, never, never, never, never!
He turned up in the morning, looking and speaking chirpily. Hamilton, who had spent a restless night, thought he detected signs of similar restlessness in Bones.
Miss Marguerite Whitland brought him his letters, and he went over them listlessly until he came to one large envelope which bore on its flap the all-too-familiar seal of the Ministry. Bones looked at it and made a little face.
"Yes, my old notetaker," he said, "my poor young derelict, cast out"--his voice shook--"through the rapacious and naughty old speculations of one who should have protected your jolly old interests, it is from the Ministry."
"Aren't you going to open it?" she asked.
"No, dear young typewriter, I am not," Bones said firmly. "It's all about the beastly jute, telling me to take it away. Now, where the dickens am I going to put it, eh? Never talk to me about jute," he said violently. "If I saw a jute tree at this moment, I'd simply hate the sight of it!"