Not a very rational state
of mind, the Scribe must confess, and only to be accounted for by
the fact that Peter's talk, instead of clearing Jack's mind of old
doubts, had really clouded it the more--quite as a bottle of
mixture when shaken sends its insoluble particles whirling
throughout the whole.
It was not until the following morning, indeed, that the sediment
began to settle, and some of the sanity of Peter's wholesome
prescription to produce a clarifying effect. As long as he, Jack,
lived upon his uncle's bounty--and that was really what it
amounted it--he must at least try to contribute his own quota of
good cheer and courtesy. This was what Peter had done him the
honor to advise, and he must begin at once if he wanted to show
his appreciation of the courtesy.
His uncle opened the way:
"Why, I didn't know until I saw him go out that he was a friend of
Mr. Portman's," he said as he sipped his coffee.
"Neither did I. But does it make any difference?" answered Jack,
flipping off the top of his egg.
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