“Stuff and nonsense,” said Mr. Smithson. “You'll lose all them ideas as soon as you're married. You'll have somebody to look after you and help you spend your money.”
Mr. Clarkson emitted a dismal groan, and clapping his hand over his mouth strove to make it pass muster as a yawn. It was evident that the malicious Mr. Smithson was deriving considerable pleasure from his discomfiture—the pleasure natural to the father of seven over the troubles of a comfortable bachelor. Mr. Clarkson, anxious to share his troubles with somebody, came to a sudden and malicious determination to share them with Mr. Smithson.
“I don't want anybody to help me spend my money,” he said, slowly. “First and last I've saved a tidy bit. I've got this house, those three cottages in Turner's Lane, and pretty near six hundred pounds in the bank.”
Mr. Smithson's eyes glistened.
“I had thought—it had occurred to me,” said Mr. Clarkson, trying to keep as near the truth as possible, “to leave my property to a friend o' mine —a hard-working man with a large family. However, it's no use talking about that now. It's too late.”
“Who—who was it?” inquired his friend, trying to keep his voice steady.
Mr. Clarkson shook his head. “It's no good talking about that now, George,” he said, eyeing him with sly enjoyment. “I shall have to leave everything to my wife now. After all, perhaps it does more harm than good to leave money to people.”
“Rubbish!” said Mr. Smithson, sharply. “Who was it?”
“You, George,” said Mr. Clarkson, softly.
“Me?” said the other, with a gasp. “Me?” He jumped up from his chair, and, seizing the other's hand, shook it fervently.