y 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."

"Don't see what good we can do," demurred Gladman.

"Well, you three are his only relatives; it's only decent you should be
present," urged Clodd. "Besides, there's the will to be read. You may
care to hear it."

The dry old law stationer opened wide his watery eyes.

"His will! Why, what had he got to leave? There was nothing but the
annuity."

"You turn up at the funeral," Clodd told him, "an