“Not come in yet, sir; but he is sure to be back soon,” said Mr. Clowes, the butler, to Terry Driscoll, as he stood in the hall of Mr. Davenport Dunn's house, about eleven o'clock of the same night we have spoken of in our last chapter.
“You're expecting him, then?” asked Driscoll, in his own humble manner.
“Yes, sir,” said Clowes, looking at his watch; “he ought to be here now. We have a deal of business to get through to-night, and several appointments to keep; but he'll see you, Mr. Driscoll. He always gives directions to admit you at once.”
“Does he really?” asked Driscoll, with an air of perfect innocence.
“Yes,” said Clowes, in a tone at once easy and patronizing, “he likes you. You are one of the very few who can amuse him. Indeed, I don't think I ever heard him laugh, what I 'd call a hearty laugh, except when you 're with him.”
“Isn't that quare, now!” exclaimed Driscoll. “Lord knows it's little fun is in me now!”
“Come in and take a chair; charge you nothing for the sitting,” said Clowes, laughing at his own smartness as he led the way into a most comfortably furnished little room which formed his own sanctum.
The walls were decorated with colored prints and drawings of great projected enterprises,—peat fuel manufactories of splendid pretensions, American packet stations on the west coast, of almost regal architecture, vied with ground-plans of public parks and ornamental model farms; fish-curing institutions, and smelting-houses, and beetroot-sugar buildings, graced scenes of the very wildest desolation, and, by an active representation of life and movement, seemed to typify the wealth and prosperity which enterprise was sure to carry into regions the very dreariest and least promising.
“A fine thing, that, Mr. Driscoll!” said Clowes, as Terry stood admiring a large and highly colored plate, wherein several steam-engines were employed in supplying mill-streams with water from a vast lake, while thousands of people seemed busily engaged in spade labor on its borders. “That is the 'Lough Corrib Drainage and Fresh Strawberry Company,' capital eight hundred thousand pounds! Chemical analysis has discovered that the soil of drained lands, treated with a suitable admixture of the alkaline carbonates, is peculiarly favorable to the growth of the strawberry,—a fruit whose properties are only now receiving their proper estimate. The strawberry, you are perhaps not aware, is a great anti-scorbutic. Six strawberries, taken in a glass of diluted malic acid of a morning, fasting, would restore the health of those fine fellows we are now daily losing in such numbers in the Crimea. I mean, of course, a regular treatment of three months of this regimen, with due attention to diet, cleanliness, and habit of exercise,—all predisposing elements removed, all causes of mental anxiety withdrawn. To this humane discovery this great industrial speculation owes its origin. There you see the engines at full work; the lake is in process of being drained, the water being all utilized by the mills you see yonder, some of which are compressing the strawberry pulp into a paste for exportation. Here are the people planting the shoots; those men in blue, with the watering-pots, are the alkaline feeders, who supply the plant with the chemical preparation I mentioned, the strength being duly marked by letters, as you see. B. C. P. means bi-carbonate of potash; S. C. S., sub-carbonate of soda; and so on. Already, sir,” said he, raising his voice, “we have contracts for the supply of twenty-eight tons a week, and we hope,” added he, with a tremulous fervor in his voice, “to live to see the time when the table of the poorest peasant in the land will be graced by the health-conducing condiment.”
“With all my heart and soul I wish you success,” said Driscoll; while he muttered under his breath what sounded like a fervid prayer for the realization of this blessed hope.