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.”