Hal shifted again, and looked like speaking, but got no further. There was a big lump in his throat.
"All the arguing in the world wouldn't do it, if tweaking and twinging wouldn't," continued the Squire, mentally referring to his own and the doctor's discourses, together with the pains and premonitions of the disease itself. "It's astonishing what a man will bear, rather than give up his besetting sin."
"I did my best," added Hal, thinking of nobody's efforts but his own. "I spoke out plainly too."
"Ah!" said the Squire, suddenly remembering those words of Hal's when first he learnt that the bailiff was to be discharged. "You've been in and out a good deal, I suppose, Hal; as you say, you've done your best."
"But, you see, it hasn't saved him," rejoined Hal mournfully. "That's the worst of it."
"It's very sad," said the Squire, after a pause, during which he put his gold-rimmed glasses on, and took them off again. "It's always sad when a man reaps the fruits of his own folly."
"Especially when he has had fair warning," added Hal, "and might have done so differently."
"I must go and see him one of these mornings, I suppose," observed the Squire presently.
The next few days made a great difference in Farmer Bluff. When the Squire went, he found the downstairs room vacant.
"Where's Farmer Bluff?" asked Hal uneasily.