“I say, Jenkins, how you cough!”

“Yes, sir, I do. It’s a sign that autumn’s coming on. I have been pretty free from it all the summer. I think the few days I lay in bed through that fall, must have done good to my chest; for, since then, I have hardly coughed at all. This last day or two it has been bad again.”

“What cough do you call it?” went on Roland Yorke—you may have guessed he was the speaker. “A churchyard cough?”

“Well, I don’t know, sir,” said Jenkins. “It has been called that, before now. I dare say it will be the end of me at last.”

“Cool!” remarked Roland. “Cooler than I should be, if I had a cough, or any plague of the sort, that was likely to be my end. Does it trouble your mind, Jenkins?”

“No, sir, not exactly. It gives me rather down-hearted thoughts now and then, till I remember that everything is sure to be ordered for the best.”

“The best! Should you call it for ‘the best’ if you were to go off?” demanded Roland, drawing pen-and-ink chimneys upon his blotting-paper, with clouds of smoke coming out, as he sat lazily at his desk.

“I dare say, sir, if that were to happen, I should be enabled to see that it was for the best. There’s no doubt of it.”

“According to that theory, everything that happens must be for the best. You may as well say that pitching on to your head and half killing yourself, was for the best. Moonshine, Jenkins!”

“I think even that accident was sent for some wise purpose, sir. I know, in some respects, it was very palpably for the best. It afforded me some days of quiet, serious reflection, and it served to show how considerate everybody was for me.”

“And the pain?”

“That was soon over, sir. It made me think of that better place where there will be no pain. If I am to be called there early, Mr. Roland, it is well that my thoughts should be led to it.”

Roland stared with all his eyes. “I say, Jenkins, what do you mean? You have nothing serious the matter with you?”

“No, sir; nothing but the cough, and a weakness that I feel. My mother and brother both died of the same thing, sir.”

“Oh, nonsense!” returned Roland. “Because one’s mother dies, is that any reason why we should fall into low spirits and take up the notion that we are going to die, and look out for it? I am surprised at you, Jenkins.”

“I am not in low spirits, sir; and I am sure I do not look out for it. I might have looked out for it any autumn or any spring of late, had I been that way inclined, for I have had the cough at those periods, as you know, sir. There’s a difference, Mr. Roland, between looking out for a thing, and not shutting one’s eyes to what may come.”

“I say, old fellow, you just put all such notions away from you”—and Roland really meant to speak in a kindly, cheering spirit. “My father died of dropsy; and I may just as well set on, and poke and pat at myself every other morning, to see if it’s not attacking me. Only think what would become of this office without you! Galloway would fret and fume himself into his tomb at having nobody but me in it.”

A smile crossed Jenkins’s face at the idea of the office, confided to the management of Roland Yorke. Poor Jenkins was one of the doubtful ones, from a sanitary point of view. Always shadowy, as if a wind would blow him away, and, for some years, suffering much from a cough, which only disappeared in summer, he could not, and did not, count upon a long life. He had quite recovered from his accident, but the cough had now come on with much force, and he was feeling unusually weak.

“You don’t look ill, Jenkins.”

“Don’t I, sir? The Reverend Mr. Yorke met me, to-day—”

“Don’t bring up his name before me!” interrupted Roland, raising his voice to anger. “I may begin to swear, perhaps, if you do.”

“Why, what has he done?” wondered Jenkins.

“Never mind what he has done,” nodded Roland. “He is a disgrace to the name of Yorke. I enjoyed the pleasure of telling him so, the other night, more than I have enjoyed anything a long while. He was so mad! If he had not been a parson, I shouldn’t wonder but he’d have pitched into me.”

“Mr. Roland, sir, you know the parties are waiting for that lease,” Jenkins ventured to remind him.

“Let the parties wait,” rejoined Roland. “Do they think this office is going to be hurried as if it were a common lawyer’s? I say, Jenkins, where has old Galloway taken flight to, this afternoon?”

“He has an appointment with the surrogate,” answered Jenkins. “Oh!—I quite forgot to mention something to you, Mr. Roland.”

“Mention it now,” said Roland.

“A person came this morning, sir, and was rather loud,” said Jenkins, in a tone of deprecation, as if he would apologize for having to repeat the news. “He thought you were in, Mr. Roland, and that I was only denying you, and he grew insolent. Mr. Galloway happened to be in his room, unfortunately, and heard it, and he came out himself, and sent the person away. Mr. Galloway was very angry, and he desired me to tell you, sir, that he would not have that sort of people coming here.”

Roland took up the ruler, and essayed to balance it on the edge of his nose. “Who was it?” asked he.

“I am not sure who it was, though I know I have seen the man, somewhere. I think he wanted payment of a bill, sir.”

“Nothing more likely,” rejoined Roland, with characteristic indifference. “I hope his head won’t ache till he gets it! I am cleared out for some time to come. I’d like to know who the fellow was, though, Jenkins, that I might punish him for his impudence. How dared he come here?”

“I asked him to leave his name, sir, and he said Mr. Roland Yorke knew his name quite well enough, without having it left for him.”

“As brassy as that, was he! I wish to goodness it was the fashion to have a cistern in your house-roofs!” emphatically added Roland.

“A what, sir?” cried Jenkins, lifting his eyes from his writing.

“A water-cistern, with a tap, worked by a string, at pleasure. You could give it a pull, you know, when such customers as those came, and they’d find themselves deluged. That would cool their insolence, if anything would. I’d get up a company for it, and take out a patent, if I only had the ready money.”

Jenkins made no reply. He was applying himself diligently to his work, perhaps hoping that Mr. Roland Yorke might take the hint, and do the same. Roland actually did take it; at any rate, he dipped his pen in the ink, and wrote, at the very least, five or six words; then he looked up.

“Jenkins,” began he again, “do you know much about Port Natal?”

“I don’t know anything about it, sir; except that there is such a place.”

“Why, you know nothing!” cried Roland. “I never saw such a muff. I wonder what you reckon yourself good for, Jenkins?”

Jenkins shook his head. No matter what reproach was brought against him, he received it meekly, as if it were his due. “I am not good for much, sir, beyond just my daily duty here. To know about Port Natal and those foreign places is not in my work, sir, and so I’m afraid I neglect them. Did you want any information about Port Natal, Mr. Roland?”

“I have got it,” said Roland; “loads of it. I am not sure that I shan’t make a start for it, Jenkins.”

“For Port Natal, sir? Why! it’s all the way to Africa!”

“Do you suppose I thought it was in Wales?” retorted Roland. “It’s the jolliest opening for an enterprising man, is Port Natal. You may land there to-day with half-a-crown in your pocket, and come away in a year or two with your fortune made.”

“Indeed!” ejaculated Jenkins. “How is it made, sir?”

“Oh, you learn all that when you get there. I shall go, Jenkins, if things don’t look up a bit in these quarters.”

“What things, sir?” Jenkins ventured to ask.

“Tin, for one thing; work for another,” answered Roland. “If I don’t get more of the one, and less of the other, I shall try Port Natal. I had a row with my lady at dinner-time. She thinks a paltry sovereign or two ought to last a fellow for a month. My service to her! I just dropped a hint of Port Natal, and left her weeping. She’ll have come to, by this evening, and behave liberally.”

“But about the work, sir?” said Jenkins. “I’m sure I make it as light for you as I possibly can. You have only had that lease, sir, all day yesterday and to-day.”

“Oh, it’s not just the amount of work, Jenkins,” acknowledged Roland; “it’s the being tied by the leg to this horrid old office. As good work as play, if one has to be in it. I have been fit to cut it altogether every hour, since Arthur Channing left: for you know you are no company, Jenkins.”

“Very true, sir.”

“If I could only get Arthur Channing to go with me, I’d be off to-morrow! But he laughs at it. He hasn’t got half pluck. Only fancy, Jenkins! my coming back in a year or two with twenty thousand pounds in my pocket! Wouldn’t I give you a treat, old chap! I’d pay a couple of clerks to do your work here, and carry you off somewhere, in spite of old Galloway, for a six-months’ holiday, where you’d get rid of that precious cough. I would, Jenkins.”

“You are very kind, sir—”

Jenkins was stopped by the “precious cough.” It seemed completely to rack his frame. Roland looked at him with sympathy, and just then steps were heard to enter the passage, and a knock came to the office door.

“Who’s come bothering now?” cried Roland. “Come in!”

Possibly the mandate was not heard, for poor Jenkins was coughing still. “Don’t I tell you to come in?” roared out Roland. “Are you deaf?”

“Open the door. I don’t care to soil my gloves,” came the answer from the other side. And Mr. Roland slid off his stool to obey, rather less lazily than usual, for the voice was that of his mother, the Lady Augusta Yorke.

“A very dutiful son, you are, Mr. Roland!” was the salutation of Lady Augusta. “Forcing me up from dinner before I had finished!”

“I didn’t do anything of the sort,” said Roland.

“Yes, you did. With your threats about Port Natal! What do you know about Port Natal? Why should you go to Port Natal? You will break my heart with grief, that’s what you will do.”

“I was not going to start this afternoon,” returned Roland. “But the fact is, mother, I shall have to go to Port Natal, or to some other port, unless I can get a little money to go on with here. A fellow can’t walk about with empty pockets.”

“You undutiful, extravagant boy!” exclaimed Lady Augusta. “I am worried out of my life for money, between you all. Gerald got two sovereigns from me yesterday. What money do you want?”

“As much as you can let me have,” replied Mr. Roland.

Lady Augusta threw a five-pound note by his side upon the desk. “When you boys have driven me into the workhouse, you’ll be satisfied, perhaps. And now hold your foolish tongue about Port Natal.”

Roland gathered it up with alacrity and a word of thanks. Lady Augusta had turned to Jenkins.

“You are the best off, Jenkins; you have no children to disturb your peace. You don’t look well, Jenkins.”

“Thank you kindly, my lady, I feel but poorly. My cough has become troublesome again.”

“He has just been saying that he thought the cough was going to take him off,” interposed Roland.

Lady Augusta laughed; she supposed it was spoken in jest; and desired her son to open the door for her. Her gloves were new and delicate.

“Had you chosen to remain at the dinner-table, as a gentleman ought, I should have told you some news, Mr. Roland,” said Lady Augusta.

Roland was always ready for news. He opened his eyes and ears. “Tell it me now, good mother. Don’t bear malice.”

“Your uncle Carrick is coming here on a visit.”

“I am glad of that; that’s good!” cried Roland. “When does he come? I say, mother, don’t be in a hurry! When does he come?”

But Lady Augusta apparently was in a hurry, for she did not wait to reply. Roland looked after her, and saw her shaking hands with a gentleman, who was about to enter.

“Oh, he’s back, is he!” cried unceremonious Roland. “I thought he was dead and buried, and gone to heaven.”