Mr. Brownbee cleared his throat: 

“We think, Mr. Heythorp, you should make it at least fifteen hundred.  In that case we might perhaps consider—­”

Old Heythorp shook his head.

“We can hardly accept your assertion that we should get nothing in the event of bankruptcy.  We fancy you greatly underrate the possibilities.  Fifteen hundred a year is the least you can do for us.”

“See you d—–­d first.”

Another silence followed, then Ventnor, the solicitor, said irascibly: 

“We know where we are, then.”

Brownbee added almost nervously: 

“Are we to understand that twelve hundred a year is your—­your last word?”

Old Heythorp nodded.  “Come again this day month, and I’ll see what I can do for you;” and he shut his eyes.

Round Mr. Brownbee six of the gentlemen gathered, speaking in low voices; Mr. Ventnor nursed a leg and glowered at old Heythorp, who sat with his eyes closed.  Mr. Brownbee went over and conferred with Mr. Ventnor, then clearing his throat, he said: 

“Well, sir, we have considered your proposal; we agree to accept it for the moment.  We will come again, as you suggest, in a month’s time.

“We hope that you will by then have seen your way to something more substantial, with a view to avoiding what we should all regret, but which I fear will otherwise become inevitable.”

Old Heythorp nodded.  The eight gentlemen took their hats, and went out one by one, Mr. Brownbee courteously bringing up the rear.

The old man, who could not get up without assistance, stayed musing in his chair.  He had diddled ’em for the moment into giving him another month, and when that month was up-he would diddle ’em again!  A month ought to make the Pillin business safe, with all that hung on it.  That poor funkey chap Joe Pillin!  A gurgling chuckle escaped his red lips.  What a shadow the fellow had looked, trotting in that evening just a month ago, behind his valet’s announcement:  “Mr. Pillin, sir.”

What a parchmenty, precise, thread-paper of a chap, with his bird’s claw of a hand, and his muffled-up throat, and his quavery: 

“How do you do, Sylvanus?  I’m afraid you’re not—­”

“First rate.  Sit down.  Have some port.”

“Port!  I never drink it.  Poison to me!  Poison!”

“Do you good!”

“Oh!  I know, that’s what you always say.”

You’ve a monstrous constitution, Sylvanus.  If I drank port and smoked cigars and sat up till one o’clock, I should be in my grave to-morrow.  I’m not the man I was.  The fact is, I’ve come to see if you can help me.  I’m getting old; I’m growing nervous....”

“You always were as chickeny as an old hen, Joe.”

“Well, my nature’s not like yours.  To come to the point, I want to sell my ships and retire.  I need rest.  Freights are very depressed.  I’ve got my family to think of.”