"Do tell me what has happened since then." "It's a long story," said the pin.
"Never mind, we've nothing else to do here," I said encouragingly.
"Well," said the pin, "the night you were lost Tom never turned up at home at all." "He was utterly drunk," I said, by way of explanation.
"Don't you interrupt," said the pin, "or I won't tell you anything." I was silenced.
"Tom never turned up at all until the next morning; and he sat all that day in his chair, and did nothing but look at the wall in front of him." "Poor fellow!" I could not help saying.
"There you go!" said the pin; "be good enough to remember what I said, and if you can't endure to hear of anybody sitting and looking at a wail, it's no use my going on with my story." "I only meant that I could imagine how miserable he was that day," said I; "but go on, please." "Two or three days after, Charlie Newcome called.

Tom was alone, but he refused to see him.

He cursed to himself when he heard the name.
Charlie went back disappointed, but Tom made a great boast to his `friends' that same night of his `cold shoulder to the prig,' as he called it, and they highly applauded him for his sense.
"Again, a week later, Charlie called once more, but with the same result.

He wrote letters, but Tom put them in the fire unread; he sent books, but they were all flung into a corner.

In a thousand different ways he contrived to show Tom that, though ill-used and in suited, he was still his friend, and ready to serve him whenever opportunity should offer.
"All this while Tom was sinking lower and lower in self-respect.