CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
HOW I GOT RATHER THE WORST OF IT IN A CERTAIN ENCOUNTER.
My evening at Doubleday's lodgings was the first of a course of small dissipations which, however pleasant while they lasted, did not altogether tend to my profit.
Of course, I had no intention of going in for that sort of thing regularly; but, I thought, while Jack Smith was away for a few days, there would be no harm in relieving the dulness of my life at Beadle Square by occasionally accepting the hospitality of such decent, good- natured fellows as Doubleday and his friends.

There was nothing wrong, surely, in one fellow going and having supper with another fellow now and then! How easy the process, when one wishes to deceive oneself! But two days after Smith had gone home I received a letter which somewhat upset my calculations.

It had the Packworth postmark, and was addressed in the same cramped hand in which the momentous letter which had summoned Jack from London had been written.
I was surprised that it was not in Jack's own hand.

It ran as follows:-- "Sir,--I am sorry to say Master Johnny has took ill since he came down.
The doctor thinks it is smallpox; so please excuse him to the gentlemen, and say we hope it will make no difference, as he cannot come for a many weeks.

Your humble--Jane Shield." John ill--with smallpox! This was a blow! My first impulse was, at all risks, to go down and look after him.