“How do, Will?” he exclaimed, with even more than his usual cheerfulness.  “Did you ever read ‘The Adventures of a Younger Son’?  Oh, you must.  Listen here.  He’s describing how he thrashed an assistant master at school; thrashed him, he says, till ’the sweat dropped from his brows like rain-drops from the eaves of a pig-sty!’ Ho-ho-ho!  What do you think of that for a comparison?  Isn’t it strong?  By Jove! a bracing book!  Trelawny, you know; the friend of Byron.  As breezy a book as I know.  It does one good.”

Godfrey Sherwood was, as regards his visage, what is called a plain young man, but his smile told of infinite good-nature, and his voice, notwithstanding its frequent note of energy or zeal, had a natural softness of intonation which suggested other qualities than the practical and vigorous.

“Enjoyed your holiday?” he went on, rising, stretching himself, and offering a box of cigarettes.  “You look well.  Done any summits?  When we get our affairs in order, I must be off somewhere myself.  Northward, I think.  I want a little bracing cold.  I should like to see Iceland.  You know the Icelandic sagas?  Magnificent!  There’s the saga of Grettir the Strong—­by Jove!  But come, this isn’t business.  I have news for you, real, substantial, hopeful news.”

They seated themselves in roundbacked chairs, and Will lighted a cigarette.

“You know my thoughts were running on jam; jam is our salvation; of that I have long been convinced.  I looked about, made a few inquiries, and by good luck, not long after you went off for your holiday, met just the man I wanted.  You’ve heard of Applegarth’s jams?”

Will said he had seen them advertised.

“Well, I came across Applegarth himself.  I was talking to Linklater —­and jams came up.  ‘You ought to see my friend Applegarth,’ said he; and he arranged for us to meet.  Applegarth happened to be in town, but he lives down in Somerset, and his factory is at Bristol.  We all dined together at the Junior Carlton, and Applegarth and I got on so well that he asked me down to his place.  Oxford man, clever, a fine musician, and an astronomer; has built himself a little observatory—­magnificent telescope.  By Jove! you should hear him handle the violin.  Astonishing fellow!  Not much of a talker; rather dry in his manner; but no end of energy, bubbling over with vital force.  He began as a barrister, but couldn’t get on, and saw his capital melting.  ‘Hang it!’ said he, ’I must make some use of what money I have’; and he thought of jam.  Brilliant idea!  He began in a very modest way, down at Bristol, only aiming at local trade.  But his jams were good; the demand grew; he built a factory; profits became considerable.  And now, he wants to withdraw from active business, keeping an interest.  Wants to find some one who would run and extend the concern—­put in a fair capital, and leave him to draw his income quietly.  You see?”

“Seems a good opportunity,” said Warburton.