Miser Farebrother (Vol. 1-3). B. L. Farjeon

spoke in a hard tone; there was no pleading in her voice and manner: had there been, the probability is that she would not have succeeded.

      "How old is he now?" asked Miser Farebrother.

      "Seventeen last birthday."

      "Decent looking?"

      "Yes."

      "A good writer?"

      "Here is his last letter to me," said Mrs. Pamflett, handing it to the miser.

      He examined it carefully; the writing was excellent. He returned it to his housekeeper.

      "How about his figures?"

      "He is splendid at them. That is what he was distinguished for at school."

      "Was he distinguished for anything else? For instance, for keeping his own counsel?"

      "He can do that."

      "Is he fond of pleasure?"

      "He wants to get along in the world."

      "Willing to work hard?"

      "Try him."

      "I will think of it," said Miser Farebrother, going to his room. It was not his habit to do things in a hurry.

      He passed the night as usual writing in his account-books, and making calculations of money and dates, and reckoning up compound interest at different rates of percentage per month. He never lent money at interest per annum, but always at compound interest per month, a system which swelled his profits enormously. A ledger slipped from the table to the ground, and stooping to reach it, he found himself unable to rise. He beat the floor with his hands, and called out for his housekeeper; but it was many minutes before she heard him and came to his help. She assisted him to his feet, and into his chair, where he sat, twisting and groaning.

      "Rub my back, rub my back! Lower, lower! A little more to the left! No; that's not the place! Ah, now you're right. Keep rubbing—harder, harder. Oh! oh!"

      "I told you the other night," said Mrs. Pamflett, composedly, as she carried out his instructions, "when you walked home from the station in the sopping rain, that you'd catch lumbago; and now you've got it."

      "Oh! oh!" cried Miser Farebrother. "You're a witch, you're a witch! You laid a spell upon me. What did you do it for? Do you think I shall put you down in my will, and that my death will make you rich? You're mistaken; I've no money to leave and if I had, you shouldn't have it. No one should have it—no one. 'Walk home in the rain!'—what else could I do? Can I afford carriages to ride in? You know I can't; you know it, you know it! Rub away—harder—harder! Have you got no life in you?"

      He lay back in his chair, gasping, his pains somewhat relieved.

      "You won't be able to move to-morrow," said Mrs. Pamflett; "and now you've begun to have lumbago, it will never leave you."

      "What! You're putting more spells on me, are you? Witches ought to be burnt. It's a good job there's nothing particular to do at the office to-morrow; only it isn't safe to leave it alone day or night."

      "No, it isn't," said Mrs. Pamflett. "Somebody ought to sleep there. I always thought that. Jeremiah could. You'd best get to bed now; I'll help you. Then I'll get some turpentine and flannel; it will do you good, perhaps. Yes, some person in whom you have confidence, should sleep in the office."

      "There's no such person," he snarled. "Everybody tries to rob me—everybody—everybody!"

      "How will it be," said Mrs. Pamflett, not in the slightest way ruffled, "when you're laid up a week at a time, and can't go to London to attend your customers? It will happen; I know what lumbago is. Once get it into your bones, there's no driving it out."

      "It isn't in my bones; it's only a slight attack. I can walk now if I please. See; I can stand up straight, and—Oh! oh!"

      Down he fell again, and when Mrs. Pamflett attempted to assist him he screamed out, "Let me be! let me be! You're twisting me wrong! You want to kill me!"

      Presently, when there was less need for his comical physical contortions, which did not elicit from Mrs. Pamflett either a smile or the slightest expression of sympathy, she returned to the attack.

      "Jeremiah is the very person you want. If you don't have him, I shall obtain another situation for him, and then you will lose a treasure."

      "A treasure!" he retorted, scornfully. "Of course: every cock crows on its own dunghill. Jeremiah's a precious stone, eh? A very precious stone!"

      "He is. He's the brightest, cleverest lad you've ever come across."

      "Ah," he said, with a cunning cock of his head; "but we don't want'm too clever; do we?"

      "He will do everything you want done in the way you wish," said Mrs. Pamflett, calmly; "and if that doesn't content you, nothing will. He writes well, as you have seen; he knows all about book-keeping; and he's as sharp as a needle."

      "Takes after his mother?" observed Miser Farebrother, with a sardonic leer.

      "No; I was never very clever, I've missed things. He won't, being a man. I'm glad I didn't have a girl. As a rule, I hate them."

      "How about Phœbe?"

      "She's well enough, but there's not much love lost between us. She don't take to me, and I don't take to her. It's on her side, mostly, not mine. She has nothing to complain of, any more than you have."

      "Oh, I don't complain," he said, his wary eyes on her.

      "Perhaps it's as well you don't. You must have somebody here, and you would most likely get some one in my place who'd eat you out of house and home. Female servants are a nice set! Shall I send for Jeremiah? Will you see him here to-morrow?"

      "Yes," said Miser Farebrother; he was now in bed, and Mrs. Pamflett was tucking him in; "you may send for him. I will see him to-morrow."

      CHAPTER VI.

       A VERY SMALL BOY COVERS HIMSELF WITH GLORY.

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      Jeremiah Pamflett presented himself at Parksides at noon. His mother was waiting for him at the gates. A pale, self-possessed woman, upon whose face, to the ordinary observer, was never seen a sign of joy or sorrow, in whose eyes never shone that light of sympathy which draws heart to heart, she became transformed the moment her son appeared. She ran toward him; she pressed him in her arms; she kissed him again and again.

      "My boy! my boy!" she murmured.

      "Mother," said Jeremiah, "you're rumpling my collar, and you wrote to me to make myself nice."

      "And you do look nice, my pet," said Mrs. Pamflett, taking off his shiny belltopper, and blowing away a speck of dust. "How much did you give for this new hat?"

      "Six-and-six, in Drury Lane. Don't press your hand over it like that; you're rubbing the dust into it. I gave fifteenpence for the necktie and tenpence for this white handkerchief, and two-and-nine for the shirt. Then there's the boots and socks and a new walking-stick. And I had to get shaved."

      "Did you, Jeremiah, did you!" exclaimed the proud mother, passing her hand over his remarkably smooth chin, guiltless as yet of the remotest indication of hair. "My boy's growing quite a man!"

      "Altogether, with my fare down here, I've spent one pound six, and you only sent me a sovereign. I had to borrow the six shillings, and I shall have to pay it back the moment I get to London."

      With a nod and a smile Mrs. Pamflett produced her purse, and handed six shillings to her son, upon receiving which Jeremiah hugged her, and winked, as it were inwardly to himself, over her shoulder.

      "Another shilling, mother, for luck; now don't be mean. You haven't got any more sons; don't begrudge your only one!"

      The appeal was irresistible, and Jeremiah received