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Updated: June 29, 2025
Nothing ever does when a fellow wants it. So I turned tail, and faced the prospect of a solitary ten-mile walk back to Brownstroke. I felt decidedly down. This expedition to Packworth had been a favourite dream of mine for many months past, and somehow I had never anticipated there would be much difficulty, could I once get there, in discovering my friend Smith.
Half way up stairs a sudden thought occurred to me, which caused me to drop my burden and hurry back to my uncle's room. "Uncle, do you know the Smiths of Packworth?" My uncle looked up crossly. "Haven't you learned more sense at school, sir, than that? Don't you know there are hundreds of Smiths at Packworth?" This was a crusher.
Surely, if he lived here, he would have called for the letter. Why did he tell me to write to Post-Office, Packworth, if he never meant to call for my letters? A feeling of vexation crossed my mind, and mingled with the disappointment I felt at now being sure my journey here was a hopeless one. I wandered about the town a bit, in the vague hope of something turning up. But nothing did.
It had never occurred to me before that Smith was such a very common name; but it now dawned slowly on me that to find a Smith in Packworth would be about as simple as to find a needle in a bottle of hay. Anyhow, I could write to him now without fear that was a comfort. So I turned to my newspapers and began to read through a few of the advertisements my uncle had considerately marked.
And next moment I found myself bowling merrily along in the baker's cart all among the loaves and flour-bags to Packworth. My jovial driver seemed glad of a companion, and we soon got on very good terms, and conversed on a great variety of topics. Presently, as we seemed to be nearing the town, I ventured to inquire, "I say, do you know Jack Smith at Packworth?" The Jehu laughed.
"Do you know, Jack," said I, as I was getting out my papers, "it is so queer to hear you talking of Mr Smith as father? I can hardly realise it yet." "No more can I, often," said Jack, "though I am getting more used to the idea." "When are you going to take him to Packworth?" I asked. "I'm not quite sure.
It had the Packworth postmark, and was addressed in the same cramped hand in which the momentous letter which had summoned Jack from London had been written. I was surprised that it was not in Jack's own hand. It ran as follows: "Sir, I am sorry to say Master Johnny has took ill since he came down.
As I was sauntering along the road, a cart overtook me, a covered baker's cart with the name painted outside, "Walker, Baker, Packworth." A brilliant idea seized me as I read the legend. Making a sign to the youth in charge to stop, I ran up and asked, "I say, what would you give me a lift for to Packworth?" "What for? S'pose we say a fifty-pun' note," was the facetious reply.
As I lay awake that next morning, after a night of feverish tossing and dreaming, I could think of nothing but my friend Smith ill, perhaps dying, in the hospital at Packworth. I could do nothing to help him; I might not even go near him. Who could tell if ever I should see him again?
Billy started at this. "If I'd a known that, I'd a wrung his leg off," said he. "But when was it? This morning?" "No, last night." Last night! Then the letter would already have reached Packworth, and long before Jack and his father arrived the happiness of her life would have been dashed. It seemed no use attempting anything.
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