“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 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?”
“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.”
“Disgusting!” cried Candituft.
“Good! devilish good!” laughed Colonel Bones.