'
'A damned bad way, let me tell you. I advise you to get out of it.'
'I'm sorry--'
'So you should be.'
And the tradesman walked off, only half appeased.
Mr. Farmiloe could have shed tears in his mortification, and for some
minutes he stood looking at a bottle of laudanum, wishing he had the
courage to have done with life. Plainly he could not live very long unless
things improved. His ready money was coming to an end, rents and taxes
loomed before him. An awful thought of bankruptcy haunted him in the early
morning hours.
The most frequent visitor to the post-office was a well-dressed,
middle-aged man, who spoke civilly, and did his business in the fewest
possible words. Mr. Farmiloe rather liked the look of him, and once or
twice made conversational overtures, but with no encouraging result. One
day, feeling bolder than usual the chemist ventured to speak what he had in
mind. After supplying the grave gentleman with stamps and postal-orders, he
said, in a tone meant to be conciliatory--
'I don't know whether you ever have need of mineral waters, sir?'
'Why, yes, sometimes. My ordinary tradesman supplies them.'
'I thought I'd just mention that I keep them in stock.
Pages:
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369