“No; I like that even less.”

“Rather I trusted you, eh!”

“No, not at all, Sylvanus, not at all.  But it’s all playing round the law.”

“There’s no law to prevent you doing what you like with your money.  What I do’s nothing to you.  And mind you, I’m taking nothing from it—­not a mag.  You assist the widowed and the fatherless—­just your line, Joe!”

“What a fellow you are, Sylvanus; you don’t seem capable of taking anything seriously.”

“Care killed the cat!”

Left alone after this second interview he had thought:  ’The beggar’ll jump.’

And the beggar had.  That settlement was drawn and only awaited signature.  The Board to-day had decided on the purchase; and all that remained was to get it ratified at the general meeting.  Let him but get that over, and this provision for his grandchildren made, and he would snap his fingers at Brownbee and his crew-the canting humbugs!  “Hope you have many years of this life before you!” As if they cared for anything but his money—­their money rather!  And becoming conscious of the length of his reverie, he grasped the arms of his chair, heaved at his own bulk, in an effort to rise, growing redder and redder in face and neck.  It was one of the hundred things his doctor had told him not to do for fear of apoplexy, the humbug!  Why didn’t Farney or one of those young fellows come and help him up?  To call out was undignified.  But was he to sit there all night?  Three times he failed, and after each failure sat motionless again, crimson and exhausted; the fourth time he succeeded, and slowly made for the office.  Passing through, he stopped and said in his extinct voice: 

“You young gentlemen had forgotten me.”

“Mr. Farney said you didn’t wish to be disturbed, sir.”

“Very good of him.  Give me my hat and coat.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.  What time is it?”

“Six o’clock, sir.”

“Tell Mr. Farney to come and see me tomorrow at noon, about my speech for the general meeting.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good-night to you.”

“Good-night, Sir.”

At his tortoise gait he passed between the office stools to the door, opened it feebly, and slowly vanished.

Shutting the door behind him, a clerk said: 

“Poor old chairman!  He’s on his last!”

Another answered: 

“Gosh!  He’s a tough old hulk.  He’ll go down fightin’.”

2

Issuing from the offices of “The Island Navigation Company,” Sylvanus Heythorp moved towards the corner whence he always took tram to Sefton Park.  The crowded street had all that prosperous air of catching or missing something which characterises the town where London and New York and Dublin meet.  Old Heythorp had to cross to the far side, and he sallied forth without regard to traffic.  That snail-like passage had in it a touch of the sublime;