Mr. Duck was at breakfast one morning in his eight-roomed house at Dalston, and his revered sister, Miss Georgina, was pouring out the first cup of tea in the pot for him, and selecting the worst piece of bacon and the most suspicious-looking egg from the dish before her. Having jerked these delicacies on to his plate, and thus ensured the survival of the fittest, she proceeded to help herself to the remainder.
‘Jabez,’ said Miss Georgina suddenly, ‘some day you will die!’
‘Lor’, Georgie, don’t!’ exclaimed Jabez, bolting a particularly cindery piece of bacon, and thereby nearly bringing his sister’s prophecy off there and then.
When he had coughed and choked and increased in shininess from ten to thirty candle power, he gradually recovered, and, polishing his perspiring face with a large red handkerchief, proceeded to expostulate with Georgina on the impropriety of talking of death to a man with his mouth full.
‘You are a weak-minded idiot, Jabez!’ answered the lady. ‘All men are. Do you imagine that you won’t die?’
‘No, my dear; of course not. Only, why remind me of an unpleasant fact just when I’m having my breakfast?’
‘Because it is only at breakfast I see you, and I think you ought to make your will while you are in a sound state of mind. You’ve changed lately, brother Jabez—changed very much for the worse. You don’t come home to tea, and you have ceased to take me into your confidence.’
‘Nonsense, my dear!’ stammered Mr. Duck, going very red. ‘A little business has detained me the last night or two, I confess, but——’
‘Jabez Duck, you’re deceiving me. You’re making a fool of yourself.’
‘Georgina—really, upon my word——’