But he was so stiff and distant in his manner that I could not venture to approach him.

Once I did try, but he saw me coming and, I fancied, turned on his heel before I got up.
What was I to do?
If this was to last, I should be miserable for ever.
Yet how could it end?
Would I write him a letter, or would I get some one to plead my cause for me?
Or would I let him see how wretched I was, and work on his feelings that way?
It was all my fault, I knew.
Yet he might have come out a little and made a reconciliation easy.
Surely if he had really been my friend, thought I, he would not be so quick to cast me off, and judge me by one or two hasty words! What between an evil conscience, vexation, and disappointment, I was that day about the most miserable fellow alive.

The fellows at the office all noticed and added to my discomfort by ostentatiously condoling with me.
"Poor old chap!" said Doubleday; "he's been letting you have it, has he?
Awful shame." "As if a fellow mayn't get screwed without his interfering," laughed Crow.
"It's nothing of the sort," said I, as usual taking in earnest what was meant as a jest; "I was never screwed." Crow's only answer was a whistle, which greatly amused all the others.
"Never mind," said Doubleday, "come along with us to-night, old man; we've got a little spree on, haven't we, Crow?
We're going to get tea and shrimps at the Magpie, and then going in a body to the Serio-Comics, and finish up with a supper somewhere or other.

Going to make a regular night of it.

Come along." "I don't want to," I said; "besides, I can't afford it." "Afford your great-grandmother! Why, a fellow who can entertain the whole lot of us as you did can't be so very hard up, can he, Wallop?
So come, none of your gammon.