"He is very welcome to call—and so are a good many others," said Michael; "but they will go back as empty as they came."
"Good God! can nothing be done?" exclaimed Tomlinson, with an expression of blank despair upon his countenance. "Say, Michael—is there any resource? do you know of any plan? can you suggest any method—"
"Not one. You must go to the Bankruptcy Court, and I must go to the workhouse;"—and the old man took a huge pinch of snuff.
"To the workhouse!" cried Tomlinson; "no—impossible! Do not say that, my good old friend."
"I do say it, though;"—and two tears rolled slowly down the cashier's cheeks.
This was the first time that Tomlinson had ever beheld any outward and visible sign of emotion on the part of his faithful clerk.
Tomlinson was not naturally a bad man—at all events, not a bad-hearted man: the cashier had served him with a fidelity rarely equalled; and that announcement of a workhouse-doom in connexion with the old man touched him to the soul.
"Michael," he said, taking the cashier's hand, "you do not mean to tell me that you are totally without resources for yourself? Your salary has been six hundred a year for a long time; and surely you must have saved something out of that—you, who have no family encumbrances of any kind, and whose expenses are so very limited."
The old man slowly opened one of the cash-books, pointed to the page at the head of which stood his own name, ran his finger down a column of payments made to himself, and stopping at the total, said, "That amount runs over nine years; and the amount is £540."
"What—is it possible?" cried Tomlinson: "you have only paid yourself £60 a-year."