Among his clients Nehemiah numbered Mr. Jabez Tinker, and he was therefore not surprised when the master of Wilberlee presented himself in the small, dingy, stuffy office which Nehemiah found sufficient for his needs. Mr. Tinker, of course, was well aware of the somewhat dubious moral character of the gentleman he had come to consult; but then he did not go to Nehemiah for morals but for professional assistance.
"Well, Mr. Tinker, and how do you find yourself this morning--warm, isn't it."
"Very," said Mr. Tinker--"it's warm, and it's close for the time of the year. But any sort of weather 'll do for your kind of work, I guess, Wimpenny."
"Rather,--the warmer the better--get me used to a sultry climate. It's as well to be prepared for the future, eh?"--Mr. Wimpenny's expansive smile indicated his own appreciation of a very feeble jest; but his client's countenance was not responsive.
"H'm," said Mr. Tinker. "Well, Wimpenny, let's get to business. I want to make my will, and it's no use putting the thing off. I can always alter it?"
"Yes, yes, certainly--as long as a man lives he can alter his will, always supposing he remain _compos mentis_; and we're all human, Mr. Tinker, we're all human."
"It shouldn't be a very complicated affair either," went on Mr. Tinker. "Unfortunately, except the house I live in."
"Snug little hole, but too near the mill," thought his adviser.
"Except that, practically all I have is tied up in my business."
"And a very good business too, Mr. Tinker, by all accounts."
"I've nothing to complain of in that score; but it is unfortunate as things have turned out that I did not arrange differently. You see, I've no son to carry on the concern after my death."
"I must provide for my widow, of course. She must have the house and furniture for her life, and I thought of, say, three hundred a year--not a penny more, she'd only give it to the chapel."
Again the lawyer nodded, making notes, as he listened, on a sheet of foolscap.
"That's plain speaking," went on Mr. Tinker, "but where's the £300 to come from? That's the difficulty. Mills aren't easy to let, and the bigger they are the fewer people want them. I suppose there's nothing for it but the hammer. It's enough to make us Tinkers all turn in our graves. But there it is.--Even if Dick--you won't remember my brother, Richard,--if he'd had a son, it would have been different."