“Do you mean my father?” inquired Philip.
“Of course I do. There ain’t any one else dead, is there!”
“I had been expecting my poor father’s death for some time,” said Philip gravely.
“Just so! He wa’n’t very rugged. We’ve all got to come to it sooner or later. I expect dad’ll die of apoplexy some time—he’s so awful fat,” remarked Nicholas cheerfully. “If he does, it’s lucky he’s got me to run the business. I’m only eighteen, but I can get along as well as anybody. I’m kinder smart in business.”
“I am glad you are smart in anything,” thought Philip; for he knew that Nick was a hopeless dunce in school duties.
“I hope your father’ll live a good while,” he said politely.
“Yes, of course,” said Nick lightly. “I’d be sorry to have the old man pop off; but then you never can tell about such a thing as that.”
Philip did not relish the light way in which Nick referred to such a loss as he was suffering from, and, by way of changing the subject, said:
“I believe you said you came on business, Nicholas?”
“Yes; that’s what I wanted to come at. It’s about your fiddle.”