The boss turned the bottle and lovingly showed him the label. " It's whisky, ain't it ? " he piped, feebly. He couldn't have looked more surprised if the boss had produced a rabbit. Old Woodifield's mouth fell open at the sight. it came from the cellars at Windsor Cassel." " And the man from whom I got it told me on the strict Q.T. It wouldn't hurt a child." He took a key off his watch-chain, unlocked a cupboard below his desk, and drew forth a dark, squat bottle. I've got a little drop of something here that'll do you good before you go out into the cold again. And, feeling kindly, he winked at the old man, and said jokingly, " I tell you what. Poor old chap, he's on his last pins, thought the boss. " Now what was it ? I had it in my mind when I started out this morning." His hands began to tremble, and patches of red showed above his beard. " There was something I wanted to tell you," said old Woodifield, and his eyes grew dim remembering. " Electric heating ! " He waved almost exultantly towards the five transparent, pearly sausages glowing so softly in the tilted copper pan.īut he did not draw old Woodifield's attention to the photograph over the table of a grave-looking boy in uniform standing in one of those spectral photographers' parks with photographers' storm-clouds behind him. " New furniture," and he nodded towards the massive bookcase and the table with legs like twisted treacle. " New carpet," and he pointed to the bright red carpet with a pattern of large white rings. " I've had it done up lately," he explained, as he had explained for the past-how many ?- weeks. It gave him a feeling of deep, solid satisfaction to be planted there in the midst of it in full view of that frail old figure in the muffler.
As a matter of fact he was proud of his room he liked to have it admired, especially by old Woodifield. " Yes, it's comfortable enough," agreed the boss, and he flipped the Financial Times with a paper-knife. Wistfully, admiringly, the old voice added, " It's snug in here, upon my word ! " So there sat old Woodifield, smoking a cigar and staring almost greedily at the boss, who rolled in his office chair, stout, rosy, five years older than he, and still going strong, still at the helm. All the same, we cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves. Made a nuisance of himself to his friends, they supposed. Though what he did there the wife and girls couldn't imagine.
On Tuesday he was dressed and brushed and allowed to cut back to the City for the day. stroke, the wife and the girls kept him boxed up in the house every day of the week except Tuesday. His talk was over it was time for him to be off. Woodifield, and he peered out of the great, green leather armchair by his friend the boss's desk as a baby peers out of its pram. " Y'ARE very snug in here," piped old Mr.
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