“Broken down!” cried old Brown, hitching back his wig, as he always did when put out. “I never heard such nonsense. At your age! The thing’s incomprehensible.”
“The work has been very wearing to the brain, sir; and my application to it was close. During the three-and-twenty years I have been with you I have never had but one week’s holiday: the one last spring.”
“You told me then you felt like a man breaking down, as if you were good for nothing,” resentfully spoke old Brown.
“Yes, sir. I told you that I believed I was breaking down for want of a rest,” replied Marks. “It has proved so.”
“Why, you had your rest.”
“One week, sir. I said I feared it would not be of much use. But—it was not convenient for you to allow me more.”
“Of course it was not convenient; you know it could not be convenient,” retorted old Brown. “D’you think I keep my clerks for play, Marks? D’you suppose my business will get done of itself?”
“I was aware myself, sir, how inconvenient my absence would be, and therefore I did not press the matter. That one week’s rest did me a wonderful amount of service: it enabled me to go on until now.”
Old Brown looked at him. “See here, Marks—we are sorry to lose you: suppose you take another week’s change now, and try what it will do. A fortnight, say. Go to the sea-side, or somewhere.”
Marks shook his head. “Too late, sir. The doctors tell me it will be twelve months before I am able to work again at calculations.”