“Oh, I’m always jolly,” replied Bywater, and then he began to whistle again.
He followed Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins into the shop with his eyes; that is, they followed Jenkins. Bywater had heard, as a matter of necessity, of Jenkins’s illness, and had given as much thought to it as he would have done if told Jenkins had a headache; but to fancy him like this had never occurred to Bywater.
Now somewhere beneath Bywater’s waistcoat, there really was a little bit of heart; and, as he thus looked, a great fear began to thump against it. He followed Jenkins into the parlour. Mrs. Jenkins, after divesting Jenkins of his coat, and her boa, planted him right before the fire in his easy-chair, with a pillow at his back, and was now whisking down into the kitchen, regardless of certain customers waiting in the shop to be served.
Bywater, unasked, sat himself in a chair near to poor Jenkins and his panting breath, and indulged in another long stare. “I say, Jenkins,” said he, “what’s the matter with you?”
Jenkins took the question literally. “I believe it may be called a sort of decline, sir. I don’t know any other name for it.”
“Shan’t you get well?”
“Oh no, sir! I don’t look for that, now.”
The fear thumped at Bywater’s heart worse than before. A past vision of locking up old Ketch in the cloisters, through which pastime Jenkins had come to a certain fall, was uncomfortably present to Bywater just then. He had been the ringleader.
“What brought it on?” asked he.
“Well, sir, I suppose it was to come,” meekly replied Jenkins. “I have had a bad cough, spring and autumn, for a long while now, Master Bywater. My brother went off just the same, sir, and so did my mother.”