“I can’t afford to have you ill, my dear Sir Thomas,” said Thompson, with an unpleasant laugh.
“No, you can’t afford to have me ill. Too good a cow to milk.”
Cousin Thompson laughed, and felt that he had made a mistake.
“I cannot advise you to have my cousin up, because he, too, is ill.”
Tom Candlish’s lips parted to utter a fierce oath, but he checked it, and swung himself round in his chair.
“Is he very ill?” he said eagerly.
“Yes; he seems to me to be very ill.”
“I’m glad of it—I’m very glad of it,” cried Candlish. “Come, you needn’t stare at me. I wish the beast was dead.”
“I was not staring at you,” said Cousin Thompson; “only listening. I think you and he don’t get on well; but he’s a very clever man—my cousin Horace; and if I could get a little advice from him on your case, I’m sure I would.”
“I want no advice. Only a little time. I’m coming round, I tell you—fast. But about North. Is he very bad?”