" In the office in a
dusty pen Jim sat alone before a table. A wretched
change had overtaken him in clothes, body, and bearing;
he looked sick and shabby. He who had once rejoiced in
his day's employment, like a horse among pastures, now
sat staring on a column of accounts, idly chewing a
pen, at times heavily sighing, the picture of
inefficiency and inattention. He was sunk deep in a
painful reverie; he neither saw nor heard me, and I
stood and watched him unobserved. I had a sudden vain
relenting. Repentance bludgeoned me. As I had
predicted to Nares, I stood and kicked myself. Here
was I come home again, my honour saved; there was my
friend in want of rest, nursing, and a generous diet;
and I asked myself, with Falstaff, "What is in that
word honour? what is that honour?" and, like Falstaff,
I told myself that it was air.
"Jim!" said I.
"Loudon!" he gasped, and jumped from his chair and
stood shaking.
The next moment I was over the barrier, and we were
hand in hand.
"My poor old man!" I cried.
"Thank God, you're home at last!" he gulped, and kept
patting my shoulder with his hand.
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