His morality made the proximity of his right and left hand neighbours simply intolerable—while his politics rendered equally a nuisance the revolutionary focus in his front.
There seemed no escape from the dilemma, but to make sacrifice of his dearly-bought premises, or drown himself in the canal that bordered them at the back.
As the drowning would not have benefitted Mrs McTavish, she persuaded him against this idea, and in favour of selling the lease.
Alas, for the imprudent bank clerk! nobody could be found to buy it—unless at such a reduced rate as would have ruined him.
He was a Scotchman, and could not stand this. Far better to stick to the house.
And for a time he stuck to it.
There seemed no escape from it, but by sacrificing the lease. It was a tooth-drawing alternative; but could not be avoided.
As the husband and wife were discussing the question, canvassing it in every shape, they were interrupted by a ring at the gate-bell. It was the evening hour; when the bank clerk having returned from the city, was playing paterfamilias in the bosom of his family.
Who could be calling at that hour? It was too late for a ceremonial visit. Perhaps some unceremonious acquaintance from the Land of Cakes, dropping in for a pipe, and a glass of whisky-toddy?
“There’s yin ootside weeshes to see ye, maister.”