CHAPTER XXI.
[THE SEA.]
After a few more words of no interest with Gorman, Jerry O'Brien went into the private office of O'Hanlon, and found that gentleman encircled by hedges of legal documents, fast asleep, with a newspaper before him. The opening of the door roused the solicitor, who straightway sprang to his feet, exclaiming:
"My dear O'Brien, delighted to see you! Sit down. I'll be back in a moment."
He left the room, hastened into the outer office, asked Gorman what o'clock it was, and if the mail had been delivered yet, and then hurried back to his client, saying:
"Excuse my running away; there was something I had to say to my clerk. Now, how are you? What kind of a night had you?"
"I'm quite well, and had an excellent night. And you?"
"Oh, bad, bad! Nothing could be much worse. I didn't get an hour's sleep. I was dozing as you came in. Don't say anything about it. Remember your promise! But I am sure I am breaking down. I am certain I shall break down mentally soon."
"Nonsense!" cried O'Brien, cheerfully. "I am not going to listen to that rubbish in the noonday."
"And a beautiful noonday it is," said O'Hanlon, looking out into the meagrely illumined back-yard, with its grass-green water-butt resting unevenly on its grass-green stand; its flower-pots three-quarters full of completely sodden clay; its brokenhearted, lopsided, bedraggled whisk, reclining dejectedly partly against the humid white wall and partly against the bulged and staring water-butt; its dilapidated wooden shed that did not go through the farce of sheltering anything from the universal moisture save a battered watering-pot without a rose; and its ghastly six-foot-high arbor vitæ--a shrub which makes even summer sunshine look dull.