The telegram was addressed to the firm, but as neither of the heads of the house had arrived, Gosling opened it according to precedent.
“Gosh!” was his sole exclamation, but the tone of it stirred the interest of Flack, who turned to see his colleague’s rather protuberant blue eyes staring with a fishy glare at a flimsy sheet of paper which visibly trembled in the hold of two clusters of fat fingers.
Flack lifted his spectacles and holding them on a level with his eyebrows, said, “Bad news?”
Gosling sat down, and in the fever of the moment wiped his forehead with his snuff handkerchief, then discovered his mistake and laid the handkerchief carelessly on the desk. This infringement of his invariable practice produced even more effect upon Flack than the staring eyes and wavering fingers. Gosling might be guilty of mild histrionics, but not of such a touch as this. The utter neglect of decency exhibited by the display of that shameful bandanna could only portend calamity.
“Lord’s sakes, man, what’s the matter?” asked Flack, still taking an observation under his spectacles.
“It’s come, Flack,” said Gosling feebly. “It’s in Scotland. Our Mr Stewart died of it in Dundee this mornin’.”
Flack rose from his seat and grabbed the telegram, which was brief and pregnant. “Stewart died suddenly five a.m. Feared plague. Macfie.”
“Tchah!” said Flack, still staring at the telegram. “‘Feared plague.’ Lost their ’eads, that’s what they’ve done. Pull yourself together, man. I don’t believe a word of it.”
Gosling swallowed elaborately, discovered his bandanna on the desk and hastily pocketed it. “Might ’a been ’eart-disease, d’you think?” he said eagerly.
“We-el,” remarked Flack, “I never ’eard as ’is ’eart was affected, did you?”