"Don't talk like that, dad—" his old name for his father in his boyish days—"I hope you'll soon be much better."
"Perhaps so, Ken, but perhaps not. Now, listen! When I'm gone, you take this 'ere key, you see it on this bunch, it's the one with a bit of pink string tied round it."
"What key is it?"
"It's the key of the safe over there, in the corner of my room, just by the cupboard door there. Open the safe, and you'll see my will; it's not worth the paper it's written on now. Well, underneath the will you'll see an envelope addressed to you."
"To me, father?"
"Yes, Ken; you take that there envelope, and inside of it you'll find some information as you ought to have. Follow it up, Ken, and I hope as it will put you all right."
"What is it about, father? Let me get the paper now."
"No, no; I won't have it opened till I'm gone; time enough then—time enough then."
"Shall I take the key?"
"No, no; leave it on the table beside me. I'll have no one meddling with my keys whilst I'm here to look after them. Put the bunch where I can see it as I lie here. Get me a drink, Ken. I feel a bit faint."