"Ha--I feared so!" said Mr. Smivvle, hurrying to him with the
garments clasped in his arms. "Steady! There, lean on me--I'll have
you back into bed in a jiffy."
"Bed!" snorted Barnabas, scowling down at himself. "Bed--never! I
shall be as right as a trivet in a minute or so. Oblige me with my
shirt."
So, with a little difficulty, despite Mr. Smivvle's ready aid,
Barnabas proceeded to invest himself in his clothes; which done, he
paced to and fro across the chamber leaning upon Mr. Smivvle's arm,
glorying in his returning strength.
"And so you are going to America?" inquired Barnabas, as he sank
into a chair, a little wearily.
"I sail for New York in three days' time, sir."
"But what of your place in Worcestershire?"
"Gone, sir," said Mr. Smivvle, beginning to feel for his whisker.
"Historic place, though devilish damp and draughty--will echo to the
tread of a Smivvle no more--highly affecting thought, sir--oh demmit!"
"As to--funds, now," began Barnabas, a little awkwardly, "are
you--have you--"
"Sir, I have enough to begin with--in America. Which reminds me I
must be hopping, sir. But I couldn't go without thanking you on
behalf of--my friend Barrymaine, seeing he is precluded from--from
doing it himself. Sir, it was a great--a great grief to me--to lose
him for, as I fancy I told you, the hand of a Smivvle, sir--but he
is gone beyond plague or pestilence, or Jews, dammem! And he died,
sir, like a gentleman. So, on his behalf I do thank you deeply, and
I beg, herewith, to return you the twenty guineas you would have
given him. Here they are, sir." So saying, Mr. Smivvle released his
whisker and drawing a much worn purse from his pocket, tendered it
to Barnabas.
Then, seeing the moisture in Mr. Smivvle's averted eyes, and the
drooping dejection of Mr. Smivvle's whiskers, Barnabas took the
purse and the hand also, and holding them thus clasped, spoke.
"Mr. Smivvle," said he, "it is a far better thing to take the hand
of an honorable man and a loyal gentleman than to kiss the fingers
of a prince. This money belonged to your dead friend, let it be an
inheritance from him. As to myself, as I claim it an honor to call
myself your friend, so let it be my privilege to help you in your new
life and--and you will find five thousand guineas to your credit
when you reach New York, and--and heaven prosper you."
"Sir--" began Mr. Smivvle, but his voice failing him he turned away
and crossing to the window stood there apparently lost in
contemplation of the glory of the morning.
"You will let me know how you get on, from time to time?" inquired
Barnabas.
"Sir," stammered Mr. Smivvle, "sir--oh, Beverley, I can't thank
you--I cannot, but--if I live, you shall find I don't forget and--"