“Well, Mr. Jericho is certainly not so stout as he was,” said Mrs. Carraways to Jericho’s wife, “but then I think he looks a great deal better. He was a little too stout,” suggested the good-natured hostess.

“Decidedly too stout,” said Mrs. Jericho. “He wanted activity of mind and body. I have prevailed upon him of late to take exercise, and he is a great deal better. But, really, it would seem as if there was a general conspiracy to frighten the poor man out of the world. Absolutely a wicked design to throw me into the despair of widowhood.” And then, as tearing herself with a wrench from the idea, Mrs. Jericho blandly suggested—“Let us follow the world, and go to the juggler.”

Candituft, Colonel Bones, and Commissioner Thrush slowly trod the greensward. “Why,” said Thrush, “money seems to have taken all the colour out of him. He was a jolly fellow, red and ripe as a peach; and now—I wonder if he’s made his will. Depend upon it, he won’t live long.”

“Don’t say that! Dear fellow—I mean, poor creature! Dreadful times for such people to die, when by living”—and Candituft, with finger at his cheek, shook his head—“they could do so much good to the family of man. Really, Mr. Jericho ought to have the best advice.”

“Ugh! If he’s so very rich, Candituft, you’ll bestow advice gratis,” grinned Bones. “You’ll feel his pulse,—I’m sure of that. Now a beggar like me—a pensioner upon a crust—can’t hope for such a doctor. Humph?”

“Ha, Colonel! You know you may say anything. You[Pg 68] know you may use your friends as you please; you can’t offend ’em. They know your heart,”—said Candituft—“and what matters the rest?”

[Pg 68]

“I say, Colonel, you’ll remember Candituft in your will for all this?” said Thrush.

“My will! Ugh!” cried Colonel Bones. “When I die, I shall leave—I shall leave—the world.”

“Talking of wills,” said Thrush, returning to his self-laid trap, “talking of wills, there was an odd thing happened in Siam.”

“No doubt. Odd if there hadn’t,” cried Candituft, smiling with confidence on the unmoved Bones.

“You’ll like to hear it, Candituft. Very odd. There was an old muckthrift died, and left to the dear friend that had best flattered him a curious bequest. You’ll never guess it—it was a jar of treacle, mixed with caterpillars.”

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