“Yes; if I were to die, Dick would be Sir Dick. Doesn’t it sound funny? Sir Dick! You would, wouldn’t you, Dick?”
“Don’t talk about it, Piers; I hate the subject,” said Dick, frowning.
“I wouldn’t make you angry for the world. Come and sit near me and hold my hand. Nurse, you can go out of the room. I love you, Dick; I love you.”
“But what is the matter with you, Piers?”
“My ticker beats too fast—it’s awfully troublesome—it beats one, two, and it stops; then it flies on, and then it seems scarcely to go at all, and I feel cold and faint. If I were to get a little worse, then you’d come into my property. You’d make an awfully nice baronet. Give me your hand, Dick. Sir Dick you’d be if I were dead.”
“Go to sleep, Piers,” said Dick.
CHAPTER IV.
A POST OBIT.
Pelham sat with the boy for about an hour. The nurse came in and turned off the electric light. She lit a lamp in a distant part of the room, and shaded it; then she approached the bedside on tiptoe.
“How is the boy now?” asked Pelham in a whisper.
“He is very ill,” said the woman. “He ought to have his medicine soon.”