I
found afterwards, that some of the clerks said, "We shall never see him
again." But they did - shaky and seedy, as he was, for many a long day.
Well, just as our cab mounted the small hill on which our house stood,
the faithful clerk, with more zeal than discretion, said, "You look
awful ill, sir; why your face is as white as my shirt." I looked at his
shirt, seemingly guiltless, for days past, of the washerwoman.
But I was within three minutes of home: and I was distressed at the
thought of alarming my wife, who was not in a condition to be alarmed.
So, with what little strength I had left, I rubbed my forehead, face,
nose, lips, chin, with my clenched fist, to restore some slight colour.
Entering our door, I said, "I am rather worn out, and will go to bed.
Up all night. Work done. Now, please, I will go to bed."
So, after every affectionate care that a good wife could pay, I
swallowed my narcotic pill - and slept, slept, slept - till, at eight in
the morning, the sun was coming in, charmingly, through the windows.
Nothing seemed to ail me. What weakness, what nonsense, said I. But I
had promised to remain in bed till Mr. Smith came. But I sent down for
my clerks, and at 11 a.m. I was in full activity, dictating to one man,
listening to another, and giving orders to a third, in, as I thought,
the fullest voice - when in came Mr. Smith.
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