“I’d go slow if I were you,” he said warningly, as having finished one tuber, the sick man stretched his hand for another. “You had better not overdo it. A little every day is better than a glut; and, of course, my stock is limited.”
Dick Bracknell laughed weakly. “You’re right, of course. But if you knew what I suffer you’d understand the impulse to stuff oneself! I’ll go slow, as you advise, and perhaps I shall get quit of one disease at any rate, though the other will get rid of me as sure as a gun.”
“You think so?” asked Rayner, with an eager interest which Bracknell failed to note.
“Sure of it! I’ve seen other men this way—and there was always a funeral at the end of it; though not always a burial service. Parsons are scarce up here!”
“Have you been long in the country?” asked Rayner carelessly.
Bracknell looked at him sharply, as if suspicious of so simple a question, and then gave a short laugh. “I’ve been here a year or two. And you? You’re pretty new to the North, aren’t you?”
Rayner laughed. “A regular tenderfoot. I’ve been here before, but only for a short spell, and this time I’m straight from England.”
“Is that so?” asked Bracknell, and appraised the stranger anew. “In the mining line, I suppose?”
“Nothing half so profitable,” answered Rayner smilingly. “I am merely representing a legal firm, and have come out on a rather curious mission, one with little profit in it in fact, and with even a possibility of loss.”
“That’s poor business for a lawyer,” said Bracknell encouragingly.