That's the worst of those boarding-houses.

A fellow can't do the civil to his friends but he's sure to be interfered with by somebody or other." He was actually making excuses for me! Yes; if it hadn't been for the rudeness of some of the fellows and the aggravating behaviour of Mrs Nash, my supper would have gone off quite well.

I was quite thankful to Doubleday for the comfort he gave me, and cheerfully accepted an invitation to go up to his lodgings "to meet just the usual lot" next evening.
Which I did, and found the "usual lot" in their usual good spirits.

No one seemed to bear a grudge against me for that cold eel-pie, and one or two assured me that they had enjoyed themselves immensely.
Nothing could speak more for my greenness and vanity than the fact that I believed what they said, and felt more convinced than ever that my party, however it had _seemed_ to go off, had really been a success.
On my return to Beadle Square that evening I found a letter waiting for me, and to my joy and surprise it was in Jack Smith's own handwriting.
It said: "Dear Fred,--You'll be glad to hear I'm off the sick list at last, and have been turned out a perfect cure.

Mrs Shield, my sister's nurse and friend, insists on my taking it easy another week, and then I shall come up to town, and mean to work like a nigger to make up for lost time.
I'll tell you all the news when I come.