"Yes," acquiesced Oswald. "Wait a moment," he added, as Mr. Street was turning away to descend. "I want to speak to you about Allister. I wish you would take him on again."
Mr. Street pursed his lips up. He had a round face and small light eyes, in which sat a hard look. Whether it was the hard look or not, I can't tell, or whether it was that the look was only the index of the nature--as it generally is--certain it was that Mr. Street was not liked in the house. Oswald knew the sign of the contracted lips.
"What is your objection?" he pursued. "Allister's quite well apparently, and----"
"Apparently! there it is," interrupted Mr. Street. "It's a great hindrance to business, these sickly clerks--well one day, ill the next; especially in such a house as ours. We have no time for it."
"Allister seems well. At one time I thought his lungs were fatally diseased, but I begin to believe I was entirely mistaken. It is nearly twelve months since the worst symptoms left him, and he seems now as strong as I am."
"Pooh!" said Mr. Street. "A warm climate, if he could get to it, might set him up; but in this place of change and fogs and damp, rely upon it he'll not keep well long."
Oswald was silent. So far as the warm climate went, he agreed with Mr. Street. Had Frank Allister the opportunity of going to one it might set him up for a long life.
"How has he lived?" asked Mr. Street. "He has no money."
"He has done work at home lately. We have furnished him with some to do; plans and estimates, and such like. He has had tracings also from another house or two."
"Is that sister of his with him still?"