“Bother the money!” said the young man shortly. “Look here, Doctor; as a mining engineer, I should advise every one but those who want to do a bit of gambling, and are ready to take losses philosophically, to have nothing to do with mines. If, however, I can help you with this, I will tell you all I know as fast as I learn it.”
“That’ll do, boy. Now about the other matter. You know I make use of my eyes a good deal.”
“Yes,” said the young man anxiously.
“Then, to put it rather brutally and plainly, boy, I don’t like the look of the old dad.”
“Doctor Praed!” cried the young man in a voice full of agony, as he turned and gazed anxiously into the drawing-room, where Grantham Reed, one of the best known floaters of mining projects in the City, sat back in his chair, holding Janet Praed’s hand, and patting it gently, as he evidently listened to something his elder son was relating. “Why, what nonsense! I never saw him look better in my life.”
“Perhaps not—you didn’t,” said the Doctor drily.
“I beg your pardon. But has he complained?”
“No; he has nothing to complain of, poor fellow; but all the same, we doctors see things sometimes which tell us sad tales. Look here, Clive, my boy. I speak to you like a son, because you are going to be my son. I can’t talk to your brother, though he is the elder, and ought to stand first. I don’t like Jessop.”
“Jess is a very good fellow when you know him as I do,” said Clive coldly.
“I’m very glad to hear it, boy,” said the Doctor. “But look here; your father’s in a very bad way, and he ought to be told.”