CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.
HOW I TRIED TO FORGET MY FRIEND SMITH, AND FAILED.
When I rose next morning I was nearly ill with misery and remorse.

The thought of Jack had haunted me all night long.

I entertained all sorts of forebodings as to what had become of him and what was to be the result of my treachery to him.

I pictured him gone forth alone and friendless into the world, hoping to lose himself in London, giving up all hope of a successful career, with his name gone and his prospects blighted, and all my fault.

Poor Jack! I might never see him again, never even hear of him again! As to hearing of him, however, I soon found that in one sense I was likely to hear a good deal of him, now he was gone from Beadle Square.
Horncastle and his particular friends appeared that morning at breakfast in a state of the greatest jubilation.
"Well, that's what I call a jolly good riddance of bad rubbish," Horncastle was saying as I entered the room.