Mr. Meeson’s Will E-Book

H Rider Haggard

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Haggard’s story about greed and selfishness. This is the story of the dastardly Mr. Meeson, the rich owner of the publishing house. The only brave human who wants to stop his atrocities is Augusta. However, he leaves a mark on her spine before death, which leads further to battle.

Leseprobe

Contents

Chapter I. Augusta And Her Publisher

Chapter II. How Eustace Was Disinherited

Chapter III. Augusta’s Little Sister

Chapter IV. Augusta’s Decision

Chapter V. The R.M.S. Kangaroo

Chapter VI. Mr. Tombey Goes Forward

Chapter VII. The Catastrophe

Chapter VIII. Kerguelen Land

Chapter IX. Augusta To The Rescue

Chapter X. The Last Of Mr. Meeson

Chapter XI. Rescued

Chapter XII. Southampton Quay

Chapter XIII. Eustace Buys A Paper

Chapter XIV. At Hanover Square

Chapter XV. Eustace Consults A Lawyer

Chapter XVI. Short On Legal Etiquette

Chapter XVII. How Augusta Was Filed

Chapter XVIII. Augusta Flies

Chapter XIX. Meeson v. Addison And Another

Chapter XX. James Breaks Down

Chapter XXI. Grant As Prayed

Chapter XXII. St. George’s, Hanover Square

Chapter XXIII. Meeson’s Once Again

CHAPTER I

AUGUSTA AND HER PUBLISHER

“Now mark you, my masters: this is comedy.”–Old Play.

Everybody who has any connection with Birmingham will be acquainted with the vast publishing establishment still known by the short title of “Meeson’s,” which is perhaps the most remarkable institution of the sort in Europe. There are–or rather there were, at the date of the beginning of this history –three partners in Meeson’s–Meeson himself, the managing partner; Mr. Addison, and Mr. Roscoe–and people in Birmingham used to say that there were others interested in the affair, for Meeson’s was a “company” (limited).

However this may be, Meeson and Co. was undoubtedly a commercial marvel. It employed more than two thousand hands; and its works, lit throughout with the electric light, cover two acres and a quarter of land. One hundred commercial travellers, at three pounds a week and a commission, went forth east and west, and north and south, to sell the books of Meeson (which were largely religious in their nature) in all lands; and five-and-twenty tame authors (who were illustrated by thirteen tame artists) sat–at salaries ranging from one to five hundred a year–in vault-like hutches in the basement, and week by week poured out that hat-work for which Meeson’s was justly famous. Then there were editors and vice-editors, and heads of the various departments, and sub-heads, and financial secretaries, and readers, and many managers; but what their names were no man knew, because at Meeson’s all the employees of the great house were known by numbers; personalities and personal responsibility being the abomination of the firm. Nor was it allowed to anyone having dealings with these items ever to see the same number twice, presumably for fear lest the number should remember that he was a man and a brother, and his heart should melt towards the unfortunate, and the financial interests of Meeson’s should suffer. In short, Meeson’s was an establishment created for and devoted to money-making, and the fact was kept studiously and even insolently before the eyes of everybody connected with it–which was, of course, as it should be, in this happy land of commerce. After all that has been written, the reader will not be surprised to learn that the partners in Meeson’s were rich beyond the dreams of avarice. Their palaces would have been a wonder even in ancient Babylon, and would have excited admiration in the corruptest and most luxurious days of Rome. Where could one see such horses, such carriages, such galleries of sculpture or such collections of costly gems as at the palatial halls of Messrs. Meeson, Addison, and Roscoe?

“And to think,” as the Mighty Meeson himself would say, with a lordly wave of his right hand, to some astonished wretch of an author whom he has chosen to overwhelm with the sight of this magnificence, “to think that all this comes out of the brains of chaps like you! Why, young man, I tell you that if all the money that has been paid to you scribblers since the days of Elizabeth were added together it would not come up to my little pile; but, mind you, it ain’t so much fiction that has done the trick–it’s religion. It’s piety as pays, especially when it’s printed.”

Then the unsophisticated youth would go away, his heart too full for words, but pondering how these things were, and by-and-by he would pass into the Meeson melting-pot and learn something about it.

One day King Meeson sat in his counting house counting out his money, or, at least, looking over the books of the firm. He was in a very bad temper, and his heavy brows were wrinkled up in a way calculated to make the counting-house clerks shake on their stools. Meeson’s had a branch establishment at Sydney, in Australia, which establishment had, until lately, been paying–it is true not as well as the English one, but, still, fifteen or twenty per cent. But now a wonder had come to pass. A great American publishing firm had started an opposition house in Melbourne, and their “cuteness” was more than the “cuteness” of Meeson. Did Meeson’s publish an edition of the works of any standard author at threepence per volume the opposition company brought out the same work at twopence-halfpenny; did Meeson’s subsidise a newspaper to puff their undertakings, the opposition firm subsidised two to cry them down, and so on. And now the results of all this were becoming apparent: for the financial year just ended the Australian branch had barely earned a beggarly net dividend of seven per cent.

No wonder Mr. Meeson was furious, and no wonder that the clerks shook upon their stools.

“This must be seen into, No. 3,” said Mr. Meeson, bringing his fist down with a bang on to the balance-sheet.

No. 3 was one of the editors; a mild-eyed little man with blue spectacles. He had once been a writer of promise; but somehow Meeson’s had got him for its own, and turned him into a publisher’s hack.

“Quite so, Sir,” he said humbly. “It is very bad–it is dreadful to think of Meeson’s coming down to seven per cent–seven per cent!” and he held up his hands.

“Don’t stand there like a stuck pig, No. 3,” said Mr. Meeson, fiercely; “but suggest something.”

“Well, Sir,” said No. 3 more humbly than ever, for he was terribly afraid of his employer; “I think, perhaps, that somebody had better go to Australia, and see what can be done.”

“I know one thing that can be done,” said Mr. Meeson, with a snarl: “all those fools out there can be sacked, and sacked they shall be; and, what’s more, I’ll go and sack them myself. That will do No. 3; that will do;” and No. 3 departed, and glad enough he was to go.

As he went a clerk arrived, and gave a card to the great man.

“Miss Augusta Smithers,” he read; then with a grunt, “show Miss Augusta Smithers in.”

Presently Miss Augusta Smithers arrived. She was a tall, well-formed young lady of about twenty-five, with pretty golden hair, deep grey eyes, a fine forehead, and a delicate mouth; just now, however, she looked very nervous.

“Well, Miss Smithers, what is it?” asked the publisher.

“I came, Mr. Meeson–I came about my book.”

“Your book, Miss Smithers?” this was an affectation of forgetfulness; “let me see?–forgive me, but we publish so many books. Oh, yes, I remember; ‘Jemima’s Vow.’ Oh, well, I believe it is going on fairly.”

“I saw you advertised the sixteenth thousand the other day,” put in Miss Smithers, apologetically.

“Did we–did we? ah, then, you know more about it than I do,” and he looked at his visitor in a way that conveyed clearly enough that he considered the interview was ended.

Miss Smithers rose, and then, with a spasmodic effort, sat down again. “The fact is, Mr. Meeson,” she said–”The fact is, that, I thought that, perhaps, as ‘Jemima’s Vow’ had been such a great success, you might, perhaps–in short, you might be inclined to give me some small sum in addition to what I have received.”

Mr. Meeson looked up. His forehead was wrinkled till the shaggy eyebrows nearly hid the sharp little eyes.

“What!” he said. “What!”

At this moment the door opened, and a young gentleman came slowly in. He was a very nice-looking young man, tall and well shaped, with a fair skin and jolly blue eyes–in short, a typical young Englishman of the better sort, aetate suo twenty-four. I have said that he came slowly in, but that scarcely conveys the gay and degagé air of independence which pervaded this young man, and which would certainly have struck any observer as little short of shocking, when contrasted with the worm-like attitude of those who crept round the feet of Meeson. This young man had not, indeed, even taken the trouble to remove his hat, which was stuck upon the back of his head, his hands were in his pockets, a sacrilegious whistle hovered on his lips, and he opened the door of the sanctum sanctorum of the Meeson establishment with a kick!

“How do, uncle?” he said to the Commercial Terror, who was sitting there behind his formidable books, addressing him even as though he were an ordinary man. “Why, what’s up?”

Just then, however, he caught sight of the very handsome young lady who was seated in the office, and his whole demeanour underwent a most remarkable change; out came the hands from his pockets, off went the hat, and, turning, he bowed, really rather nicely, considering how impromptu the whole performance was.

“What is it, Eustace?” asked Mr. Meeson, sharply.

“Oh, nothing, uncle; nothing–it can bide,” and, without waiting for an invitation, he took a chair, and sat down in such a position that he could see Miss Smithers without being seen of his uncle.

“I was saying, Miss Smithers, or rather, I was going to say,” went on the elder Meeson, “that, in short, I do not in the least understand what you can mean. You will remember that you were paid a sum of fifty pounds for the copyright of ‘Jemima’s Vow.’”

“Great Heavens!” murmured Master Eustace, behind; “what a do!”

“At the time an alternative agreement, offering you seven per cent on the published price of the book, was submitted to you, and, had you accepted it, you would, doubtless, have realized a larger sum,” and Mr. Meeson contracted his hairy eyebrows and gazed at the poor girl in a way that was, to say the least, alarming. But Augusta, though she felt sadly inclined to flee, still stood to her guns, for, to tell the truth, her need was very great.

“I could not afford to wait for the seven per cent, Mr. Meeson,” she said humbly.

“Oh, ye gods! seven per cent, when he makes about forty-five!” murmured Eustace, in the background.

“Possibly, Miss Smithers; possibly;” went on the great man. “You must really forgive me if I am not acquainted with the exact condition of your private affairs. I am, however, aware from experience that the money matters of most writing people are a little embarrassed.”

Augusta winced, and Mr. Meeson, rising heavily from his chair, went to a large safe which stood near, and extracted from it a bundle of agreements. These he glanced at one by one till he found what he was looking for.

“Here is the agreement,” he said; “let me see? ah, I thought so– copyright fifty pounds, half proceeds of rights of translation, and a clause binding you to offer any future work you may produce during the next five years to our house on the seven per cent agreement, or a sum not exceeding one hundred pounds for the copyright. Now, Miss Smithers, what have you to say? You signed this paper of your own free will. It so happens that we have made a large profit on your book: indeed, I don’t mind telling you that we have got as much as we gave you back from America for the sale of the American rights; but that is no ground for your coming to ask for more money than you agreed to accept. I never heard of such a thing in the whole course of my professional experience; never!” and he paused, and once more eyed her sternly.

“At any rate, there ought to be something to come to me from the rights of translation–I saw in the paper that the book was to be translated into French and German,” said Augusta, faintly.

“Oh! yes, no doubt–Eustace, oblige me by touching the bell.”

The young gentleman did so, and a tall, melancholy-looking clerk appeared.

“No. 18,” snarled Mr. Meeson, in the tone of peculiar amiability that he reserved for his employee’s, “make out the translation account of ‘Jemima’s Vow,’ and fill up a cheque of balance due to the author.”

No. 18 vanished like a thin, unhappy ghost, and Mr. Meeson once more addressed the girl before him. “If you want money, Miss Smithers,” he said, “you had better write us another book. I am not going to deny that your work is good work–a little too deep, and not quite orthodox enough, perhaps; but still good. I tested it myself, when it came to hand–which is a thing I don’t often do–and saw it was good selling quality, and you see I didn’t make a mistake. I believe ‘Jemima’s Vow’ will sell twenty thousand without stopping–here’s the account.”

As he spoke the spectre-like clerk put down a neatly-ruled bit of paper and an unsigned cheque on the desk before his employer, and then smiled a shadowy smile and vanished.

Mr. Meeson glanced through the account, signed the cheque, and handed it, together with the account to Augusta, who proceeded to read it. It ran thus:–

AUGUSTA SMITHERS

in account with

MEESON & Co.

£. s. d.

To Sale of Right of Translation of “Jemima’s Vow” into French

7. 0. 0.

Ditto ... into German

7. 0. 0.

14. 0. 0.

Less amount due to Messrs. Meeson, being one-half of net proceeds

7. 0. 0.

Less Commission, etc.

3.19. 0.

10.19. 0.

Balance due to Author, as per cheque herewith

3. 1. 0.

Augusta looked, and then slowly crumpled up the cheque in her hand.

“If I understand, Mr. Meeson,” she said, “you have sold the two rights of translation of my book, which you persuaded me to leave in your hands, for £.4; out of which I am to receive £3 1s.?”

“Yes, Miss Smithers. Will you be so kind as to sign the receipt; the fact is that I have a good deal of business to attend to.”

“No, Mr. Meeson,” suddenly said Augusta, rising to her feet and looking exceedingly handsome and imposing in her anger. “No; I will not sign the receipt, and I will not take this cheque. And, what is more, I will not write you any more books. You have entrapped me. You have taken advantage of my ignorance and inexperience, and entrapped me so that for five years I shall be nothing but a slave to you, and, although I am now one of the most popular writers in the country, shall be obliged to accept a sum for my books upon which I cannot live. Do you know that yesterday I was offered a thousand pounds for the copyright of a book like ‘Jemima’s Vow’?–it’s a large sum; but I have the letter. Yes, and I have the book in manuscript now; and if I could publish it I should be lifted out of poverty, together with my poor little sister!” and she gave a sob. “But,” she went on, “I cannot publish it, and I will not let you have it and be treated like this; I had rather starve. I will publish nothing for five years, and I will write to the papers and say why –because I have been cheated, Mr. Meeson!”

“Cheated!” thundered the great man. “Be careful, young lady; mind what you are saying. I have a witness; Eustace, you hear, ‘cheated‘! Eustace, ‘cheated‘!”

“I hear,” said Eustace, grimly.

“Yes, Mr. Meeson, I said ‘cheated‘; and I will repeat it, whether I am locked up for it or not. Good morning, Mr. Meeson,” and she curtseyed to him, and then suddenly burst into a flood of tears.

In a minute Eustace was by her side.

“Don’t cry, Miss Smithers; for Heaven’s sake don’t I can’t bear to see it,” he said.

She looked up, her beautiful grey eyes full of tears, and tried to smile.

“Thank you,” she said; “I am very silly, but I am so disappointed. If you only knew–. There I will go. Thank you,” and in another instant she had drawn herself up and left the room.

“Well,” said Mr. Meeson, senior, who had been sitting at his desk with his great mouth open, apparently too much astonished to speak. “Well, there is a vixen for you. But she’ll come round. I’ve known them to do that sort of thing before–there are one or two down there,” and he jerked his thumb in the direction where the twenty and five tame authors sat each like a rabbit in his little hutch and did hat-work by the yard, “who carried on like that. But they are quiet enough now–they don’t show much spirit now. I know how to deal with that sort of thing–half-pay and a double tale of copy –that’s the ticket. Why, that girl will be worth fifteen hundred a year to the house. What do you think of it, young man, eh?”

“I think,” answered his nephew, on whose good-tempered face a curious look of contempt and anger had gathered, “I think that you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

CHAPTER II

HOW EUSTACE WAS DISINHERITED

There was a pause–a dreadful pause. The flash had left the cloud, but the answering thunder had not burst upon the ear. Mr. Meeson gasped. Then he took up the cheque which Augusta had thrown upon the table and slowly crumpled it.

“What did you say, young man?” he said at last, in a cold, hard voice.

“I said that you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” answered his nephew, standing his ground bravely; “and, what is more, I meant it!”

“Oh! Now will you be so kind as to explain exactly why you said that, and why you meant it?”

“I meant it,” answered his nephew, speaking in a full, strong voice, “because that girl was right when she said that you had cheated her, and you know that she was right. I have seen the accounts of ‘Jemima’s Vow’–I saw them this morning–and you have already made more than a thousand pounds clear profit on the book. And then, when she comes to ask you for something over the beggarly fifty pounds which you doled out to her, you refuse, and offer her three pounds as her share of the translation rights –three pounds as against your eleven!”

“Go on,” interrupted his uncle; “pray go on.”

“All right; I am going. That is not all: you actually avail yourself of a disgraceful trick to entrap this unfortunate girl into an agreement, whereby she becomes a literary bondslave for five years! As soon as you see that she has genius, you tell her that the expense of bringing out her book, and of advertising up her name, &c., &c., &c., will be very great– so great, indeed, that you cannot undertake it, unless, indeed, she agrees to let you have the first offer of everything she writes for five years to come, at somewhere about a fourth of the usual rate of a successful author’s pay –though, of course, you don’t tell her that. You take advantage of her inexperience to bind her by this iniquitous contract, knowing that the end of it will be that you will advance her a little money and get her into your power, and then will send her down there to the Hutches, where all the spirit and originality and genius will be crushed out of her work, and she will become a hat-writer like the rest of them–for Meeson’s is a strictly commercial undertaking, you know, and Meeson’s public don’t like genius, they like their literature dull and holy!–and it’s an infernal shame! that’s what it is, uncle!” and the young man, whose blue eyes were by this time flashing fire, for he had worked himself up as he went along, brought his fist down with a bang upon the writing table by way of emphasising his words.

“Have you done?” said his uncle.

“Yes, I’ve done; and I hope that I have put it plain.”

“Very well; and now might I ask you, supposing that you should ever come to manage this business, if your sentiments accurately represent the system upon which you would proceed?”

“Of course they do. I am not going to turn cheat for anybody.”

“Thank you. They seem to have taught you the art of plain speaking up at Oxford–though, it appears,” with a sneer, “they taught you very little else. Well, then, now it is my turn to speak; and I tell you what it is, young man, you will either instantly beg my pardon for what you have said, or you will leave Meeson’s for good and all.”

“I won’t beg your pardon for speaking the truth,” said Eustace, hotly: “the fact is that here you never hear the truth; all these poor devils creep and crawl about you, and daren’t call their souls their own. I shall be devilish glad to get out of this place, I can tell you. All this chickery and pokery makes me sick. The place stinks and reeks of sharp practice and money- making–money-making by fair means or foul.”

The elder man had, up till now, at all events to outward appearance, kept his temper; but this last flower of vigorous English was altogether too much for one whom the possession of so much money had for many years shielded from hearing unpleasant truths put roughly. The man’s face grew like a devil’s, his thick eyebrows contracted themselves, and his pale lips quivered with fury. For a few seconds he could not speak, so great was his emotion. When, at length, he did, his voice was as thick and laden with rage as a dense mist is with rain.

“You impudent young rascal!” he began, “you ungrateful foundling! Do you suppose that when my brother left you to starve–which was all that you were fit for–I picked you out of the gutter for this: that you should have the insolence to come and tell me how to conduct my business? Now, young man, I’ll just tell you what it is. You can be off and conduct a business of your own on whatever principles you choose. Get out of Meeson’s, Sir; and never dare to show your nose here again, or I’ll give the porters orders to hustle you off the premises! And, now, that isn’t all. I’ve done with you, never you look to me for another sixpence! I’m not going to support you any longer, I can tell you. And, what’s more, do you know what I’m going to do just, now? I’m going off to old Todd–that’s my lawyer–and I’m going to tell him to make another will and to leave every farthing I have–and that isn’t much short of two millions, one way and another–to Addison and Roscoe. They don’t want it, but that don’t matter. You shan’t have it– no, not a farthing of it; and I won’t have a pile like that frittered away in charities and mismanagement. There now, my fine young gentleman, just be off and see if your new business principles will get you a living.”

“All right, uncle; I’m going,” said the young man, quietly. “I quite understand what our quarrel means for me, and, to tell you the truth, I am not sorry. I have never wished to be dependent on you, or to have anything to do with a business carried on as Meeson’s is. I have a hundred a year my mother left me, and with the help of that and my education, I hope to make a living. Still, I don’t want to part from you in anger, because you have been very kind to me at times, and, as you remind me, you picked me out of the gutter when I was orphaned or not far from it. So I hope you will shake hands before I go.”

“Ah!” snarled his uncle; “you want to pipe down now, do you? But that won’t do. Off you go! and mind you don’t set foot in Pompadour Hall,” Mr. Meeson’s seat, “unless it is to get your clothes. Come, cut!”

“You misunderstand me,” said Eustace, with a touch of native dignity which became him very well. “Probably we shall not meet again, and I did not wish to part in anger, that was all. Good morning.” And he bowed and left the office.

“Confound him!” muttered his uncle as the door closed, “he’s a good plucked one–showed spirit. But I’ll show spirit, too. Meeson is a man of his word. Cut him off with a shilling? not I; cut him off with nothing at all. And yet, curse it, I like the lad. Well, I’ve done with him, thanks to that minx of a Smithers girl. Perhaps he’s sweet on her? then they can go and starve together, and be hanged to them! She had better keep out of my way, for she shall smart for this, so sure as my name is Jonathan Meeson. I’ll keep her up to the letter of that agreement, and, if she tries to publish a book inside of this country or out of it, I’ll crush her–yes, I’ll crush her, if it cost me five thousand to do it!” and, with a snarl, he dropped his fist heavily upon the table before him.

Then he rose, put poor Augusta’s agreement carefully back into the safe, which he shut with a savage snap, and proceeded to visit the various departments of his vast establishment, and to make such hay therein as had never before been dreamt of in the classic halls of Meeson’s.

To this hour the clerks of the great house talk of that dreadful day with bated breath–for as bloody Hector raged through the Greeks, so did the great Meeson rage through his hundred departments. In the very first office he caught a wretched clerk eating sardine sandwiches. Without a moment’s hesitation he took the sandwiches and threw them through the window.

“Do you suppose I pay you to come and eat your filthy sandwiches here?” he asked savagely. “There, now you can go and look for them; and see you here: you needn’t trouble to come back, you idle, worthless fellow. Off you go! and remember you need not send to me for a character. Now then–double quick!”

The unfortunate departed, feebly remonstrating, and Meeson, having glared around at the other clerks and warned them that unless they were careful –very careful–they would soon follow in his tracks, continued his course of devastation.

Presently he met an editor, No. 7 it was, who was bringing him an agreement to sign. He snatched it from him and glanced through it.

“What do you mean by bringing me a thing like this?” he said: “It’s all wrong.”

“It is exactly as you dictated to me yesterday, Sir,” said the editor indignantly.

“What, do you mean to contradict me?” roared Meeson. “Look here No. 7, you and I had better part. Now, no words: your salary will be paid to you till the end of the month, and if you would like to bring an action for wrongful dismissal, why, I’m your man. Good morning, No. 7; good morning.”

Next he crossed a courtyard where, by slipping stealthily around the corner, he came upon a jolly little errand boy, who was enjoying a solitary game of marbles.

Whack came his cane across the seat of that errand boy’s trousers, and in another minute he had followed the editor and the sandwich-devouring clerk.

And so the merry game went on for half an hour or more, till at last Mr. Meeson was fain to cease his troubling, being too exhausted to continue his destroying course. But next morning there was promotion going on in the great publishing house; eleven vacancies had to be filled.

A couple of glasses of brown sherry and a few sandwiches, which he hastily swallowed at a neighboring restaurant, quickly restored him, however; and, jumping into a cab, he drove post haste to his lawyers’, Messrs. Todd and James.

“Is Mr. Todd in?” he said to the managing clerk, who came forward bowing obsequiously to the richest man in Birmingham.

“Mr. Todd will be disengaged in a few minutes, Sir,” he said. “May I offer you the Times?”

“Damn the Times!” was the polite answer; “I don’t come here to read newspapers. Tell Mr. Todd I must see him at once, or else I shall go elsewhere.”

“I am much afraid Sir”–began the managing clerk.

Mr. Meeson jumped up and grabbed his hat. “Now then, which is it to be?” he said.

“Oh, certainly, Sir; pray be seated,” answered the manager in great alarm –Meeson’s business was not a thing to be lightly lost. “I will see Mr. Todd instantly,” and he vanished.

Almost simultaneously with his departure an old lady was unceremoniously bundled out of an inner room, clutching feebly at a reticule full of papers and proclaiming loudly that her head was going round and round. The poor old soul was just altering her will for the eighteenth time in favor of a brand new charity, highly recommended by Royalty; and to be suddenly shot from the revered presence of her lawyer out into the outer darkness of the clerk’s office, was really too much for her.

In another minute, Mr. Meeson was being warmly, even enthusiastically, greeted by Mr. Todd himself. Mr. Todd was a nervous-looking, jumpy little man, who spoke in jerks and gushes in such a way as to remind one of a fire-hose through which water was being pumped intermittently.

“How do you do, my dear Sir? Delighted to have this pleasure,” he began with a sudden gush, and then suddenly dried up, as he noticed the ominous expression on the great man’s brow. “I am sure I am very sorry that you were kept waiting, my dear Sir: but I was at the moment engaged with an excellent and most Christian testator.”–

Here he suddenly jumped and dried up again, for Mr. Meeson, without the slightest warning, ejaculated: “Curse your Christian testator! And look here, Todd, just you see that it does not happen again. I’m a Christian testator too; and Christians of my cut aren’t accustomed to be kept standing about just like office-boys or authors. See that it don’t happen again, Todd.”

“I am sure I am exceedingly grieved. Circumstances”–

“Oh, never mind all that–I want my will.”

“Will–will–Forgive me–a little confused, that’s all. Your manner is so full of hearty old middle-age’s kind of vigour”–

Here he stopped, more suddenly even than usual, for Mr. Meeson fixed him with his savage eye, and then jerked himself out of the room to look for the document in question.

“Little idiot!” muttered Meeson; “I’ll give him the sack, too, if he isn’t more careful. By Jove! why should I not have my own resident solicitor? I could get a sharp hand with a damaged character for about £300 a year, and I pay that old Todd quite £2000. There is a vacant place in the Hutches that I could turn into an office. Hang me, if I don’t do it. I will make that little chirping grasshopper jump to some purpose, I’ll warrant,” and he chuckled at the idea.

Just then Mr. Todd returned with the will, and before he could begin to make any explanations his employer, cut him short with a sharp order to read the gist of it.

This the lawyer proceeded to do. It was very short, and, with the exception of a few legacies, amounting in all to about twenty thousand pounds, bequeathed all the testator’s vast fortune and estates, including his (by far the largest) interest in the great publishing house, and his palace with the paintings and other valuable contents, known as Pompadour Hall, to his nephew, Eustace H. Meeson.

“Very well,” he said, when the reading was finished; “now give it to me.”

Mr. Todd obeyed, and handed the document to his patron, who deliberately rent it into fragments with his strong fingers, and then completed its destruction by tearing it with his big white teeth. This done, he mixed the little pieces up, threw them on the floor, and stamped upon them with an air of malignity that almost frightened jerky little Mr. Todd.

“Now then,” he grimly said, “there’s an end of the old love; so let’s on with the new. Take your pen and receive my instructions for my will.”

Mr. Todd did as he was bid.

“I leave all my property, real and personal, to be divided in equal shares between my two partners, Alfred Tom Addison and Cecil Spooner Roscoe. There, that’s short and sweet, and, one way and another, means a couple of millions.”

“Good heavens! Sir,” jerked out Mr. Todd. “Why, do you mean to quite cut out your nephew–and the other legatees?” he added by way of an afterthought.

“Of course I do; that is, as regards my nephew. The legatees may stand as before.”

“Well all I have to say,” went on the little man, astonished into honesty, “Is that it is the most shameful thing I ever heard of!”