“Why are we stopping here?”
“Yes. Didn’t I speak plainly? Why are we stopping here? For goodness’ sake, Bayle, don’t you take to aggravating me by repeating my words! I’m irritable enough without that!”
“Nonsense, my dear old friend!” cried Bayle, rising.
“Hang it, man, don’t throw my age in my teeth! I can’t help being old!”
“May I live to be as old,” said Bayle, smiling, and laying his hand on Sir Gordon’s shoulder.
“Bah! don’t pray for that, man! Why should you want to live? To see all your pet schemes knocked on the head, and those you care for go to the bad, while your aches and pains increase, and you are gliding down the hill of life a wretched, selfish old man, unloved, uncared for. There, life is all a miserable mistake.”
“Uncared for, eh?” said Bayle. “Have you no friends?”
“Not one,” groaned the old man, writhing, as he felt a twinge in his back. “Oh, this bitter south wind! it’s worse than our north!”
“Shame! Why, Tom Porter watches you night and day. He would die for you.”
“So would a dog. The scoundrel only thinks of how much money I shall leave him when I go.”