he would live so long as he has."

"There's the annuity you've got to think of," said Clodd, whom his
admirers of to-day (and they are many, for he must be a millionaire
by this time) are fond of alluding to as "that frank, outspoken
Englishman." "Wouldn't it be worth your while to try what taking
him away from the fogs might do for him?"

Old Gladman seemed inclined to consider the question, but Mrs.
Gladman, a brisk, cheerful little woman, had made up her mind.

"We've had what there is to have," said Mrs. Gladman. "He's
seventy-three. What's the sense of risking good money? Be
content."

No one could say--no one ever did say--that Clodd, under the
circumstances, did not do his best. Perhaps, after all, nothing
could have helped. The little old gentleman, at Clodd's
suggestion, played at being a dormouse and lay very still. If he
grew restless, thereby bringing on his cough, Clodd, as a terrible
black cat, was watching to pounce upon him. Only by keeping very
quiet and artfully pretending to be asleep could he hope to escape
the ruthless Clodd.

Doctor William Smith (ne Wilhelm Schmidt) shrugged his fat
shoulders. "We can do noding. Dese fogs of ours: id is de one
ting dat enables the foreigner to crow over us. Keep him quiet.
De dormouse--id is a goot idea."

That evening William Clodd mounted to the second floor of 16, Gough