There had been no improvement in Job’s state of mind during the long summer days that preceded his holiday.  In his most robust days inquiries as to his health always elicited the answer that he was “just middlin’,” which is the invariable answer that the cautious Yorkshireman vouchsafes to give.  Now, with a shrunken frame, and fever in his eye, he was still “just middlin’,” and, only when hard pressed would he acknowledge the carking fear that was gnawing at his heart.  I was, however, not without hope that change of air and sea-bathing, for which Job had a passion almost equal to that for fox-hunting, would restore him to health and tranquillity of mind.

The Heskeths started for Bridlington on a Friday, and on the following Sunday the news reached me that my old friend had been drowned while bathing.  I was stunned by the blow, and a feeling of intense gloom pervaded my mind all day.  But next morning the rumour was corrected.  Job, it seems, had gone for a long swim on the Saturday morning, and, not realising that he had lost strength during the last six months, had swum too far out of his depth.  His strength had given out on the return journey, and only the arrival of a boatman had saved him from death by drowning.  Relieved as I was by this second account of what had happened, I was, nevertheless, a prey to the fear that this second encounter with death would have enhanced that agony of mind which he had endured ever since the moment when his friend, Abe Verity, had fallen into the cauldron of molten steel.  I waited anxiously for Job’s return home and determined to go and see him on the evening following his arrival.

I was in my bedroom, preparing to start off, when, to my surprise, I heard Job’s voice at my front door.  I ran downstairs and was face to face with a Job Hesketh that I had not known for six months.  His head and shoulders were erect, he had put on flesh, and the cowed look had entirely vanished from his eyes.  I at once congratulated him on his improved appearance.

“Aye, aye,” he answered, “there’s nowt mich wrang wi’ me.”

“Bridlington, I see, has done you a world of good.”

“Nay, I’ve bin farther nor Bridlington,” he replied, and the old merry twinkle, that I knew so well and had missed so long, came into his eyes.

“What do you mean?” I asked.  “Have you been on board one of the Wilson liners in the Humber and crossed over to Holland?”

“Farther nor Holland,” he replied, with a chuckle.  “I’ve bin to heaven.  I reckon I’m t’ first Yorkshireman that’s bin to heaven an’ gotten a return ticket given him.”

“Sit down, Job,” I said, “and stop that nonsense.  What do you mean?”

Job seated himself by my study fire, leisurely took from his pocket a dirty clay pipe and a roll of black twist, which he proceeded to cut and pound.  As he was thus engaged he would look up from time to time into my face and enjoy to the full the look of impatience imprinted on it.