"I understand," said Mr. Clodd. "And what do you think, Tommy, of the scheme? I may as well start calling you Tommy, because, between you and me, I think the idea will come to something."
Tommy fixed her black eyes upon him. She seemed to be looking him right through.
"You are staring again, Tommy," Clodd reminded her. "You'll have trouble breaking yourself of that habit, I can see."
"I was trying to make up my mind about you. Everything depends upon the business man."
"Glad to hear you say so," replied the self-satisfied Clodd.
"If you are very clever-- Do you mind coming nearer to the lamp? I can't quite see you over there."
Clodd never could understand why he did it--never could understand why, from first to last, he always did what Tommy wished him to do; his only consolation being that other folks seemed just as helpless. He rose and, crossing the long room, stood at attention before the large desk, nervousness, to which he was somewhat of a stranger, taking possession of him.
"You don't LOOK very clever."
Clodd experienced another new sensation--that of falling in his own estimation.
"And yet one can see that you ARE clever."
The mercury of Clodd's conceit shot upward to a point that in the case of anyone less physically robust might have been dangerous to health.
Clodd held out his hand. "We'll pull it through, Tommy. The Guv'nor shall find the literature; you and I will make it go. I like you."
And Peter Hope, entering at the moment, caught a spark from the light that shone in the eyes of William Clodd and Tommy, whose other name was Jane, as, gripping hands, they stood with the desk between them, laughing they knew not why. And the years fell from old Peter, and, again a boy, he also laughed he knew not why. He had sipped from the wine-cup of youth.
"It's all settled, Guv'nor!" cried Clodd. "Tommy and I have fixed things up. We'll start with the New Year."
"You've got the money?"
"I'm reckoning on it. I don't see very well how I can miss it."
"Sufficient?"
"Just about. You get to work."
"I've saved a little," began Peter. "It ought to have been more, but somehow it isn't."
"Perhaps we shall want it," Clodd replied; "perhaps we shan't. You are supplying the brains."
The three for a few moments remained silent.
"I think, Tommy," said Peter, "I think a bottle of the old Madeira--"
"Not to-night," said Clodd; "next time."
"To drink success," urged Peter.
"One man's success generally means some other poor devil's misfortune," answered Clodd.
"Can't be helped, of course, but don't want to think about it to-night. Must be getting back to my dormouse. Good night."
Clodd shook hands and bustled out.
"I thought as much," mused Peter aloud.
"What an odd mixture the man is! Kind--no one could have been kinder to the poor old fellow. Yet all the while-- We are an odd mixture, Tommy," said Peter Hope, "an odd mixture, we men and women." Peter was a philosopher.
The white-whiskered old dormouse soon coughed himself to sleep for ever.
"I shall want you and the missis to come to the funeral, Gladman," said Mr. Clodd, as he swung into the stationer's shop; "and bring Pincer with you. I'm writing to him."
"Don't see what good we can do," demurred Gladman.
"Well, you three are his only relatives; it's only decent you should be present," urged Clodd. "Besides, there's the will to be read. You may care to hear it."
The dry old law stationer opened wide his watery eyes.
"His will! Why, what had he got to leave? There was nothing but the annuity."
"You turn up at the funeral," Clodd told him, "and you'll learn all about it. Bonner's clerk will be there and will bring it with him.
Everything is going to be done comme il faut, as the French say."
"I ought to have known of this," began Mr. Gladman.
"Glad to find you taking so much interest in the old chap," said Clodd. "Pity he's dead and can't thank you."
"I warn you," shouted old Gladman, whose voice was rising to a scream, "he was a helpless imbecile, incapable of acting for himself! If any undue influence--"
"See you on Friday," broke in Clodd, who was busy.
Friday's ceremony was not a sociable affair. Mrs. Gladman spoke occasionally in a shrill whisper to Mr. Gladman, who replied with grunts. Both employed the remainder of their time in scowling at Clodd. Mr. Pincer, a stout, heavy gentleman connected with the House of Commons, maintained a ministerial reserve. The undertaker's foreman expressed himself as thankful when it was over. He criticised it as the humpiest funeral he had ever known; for a time he had serious thoughts of changing his profession.
The solicitor's clerk was waiting for the party on its return from Kensal Green. Clodd again offered hospitality. Mr. Pincer this time allowed himself a glass of weak whisky-and-water, and sipped it with an air of doing so without prejudice. The clerk had one a little stronger, Mrs. Gladman, dispensing with consultation, declined shrilly for self and partner. Clodd, explaining that he always followed legal precedent, mixed himself one also and drank "To our next happy meeting." Then the clerk read.
