IOO 
TIIE STRAND MAGAZINE . 
“ T should think he would,” said Mr. Scutts, 
slowly — “ if he wasn’t hurt.” 
“ You’re the last on my list,” said the 
other, hastily. He produced a slip of paper 
from his pocket-book and placed it on the 
small table, with a fountain pen. Then, 
with a smile that was both tender and playful, 
he plunged his hand in his pocket and poured 
a stream of gold on the table. 
“ What do you say to thir-ty pounds ? ” 
he said, in a hushed voice. “ Thir-ty golden 
goblins ? ” 
“ What for ? ” inquired Mr. Scutts-, with a 
notable lack of interest. 
tl For — well, to go away for a day or two,” 
said the visitor. “ I find you in bed ; it may 
be a cold or a bilious attack ; or perhaps you 
had a little upset of the nerves when the trains 
kissed each other.” 
“ I’m in bed — because — 1 can’t walk — or 
stand,” said Mr. Scutts, speaking very dis- 
tinctly. ” I’m on my club, and if as ’ow I get 
well in a day or two, there’s no reason why 
the company should give me any money. 
I’m pore, but. I’m honest.” 
u Take my advice as a friend,” said the 
other ; “ take the money while you can get it.” 
He nodded significantly at Mr. Scutts and 
closed one eye. Mr. Scutts closed both of his. 
“ I ’ad my back hurt in the collision,” he 
said, after a long pause. “ I ’ad to be helped 
’ome. So far it seems to get worse, but I ’ope 
for the best.” 
“ Dear me,” said the visitor; “how sad ! 
I suppose it has been coming on for a long 
time. Most of these back cases do. At least 
all the doctors say so.” 
“It was done in the collision,” said Mr. 
Scutts, mildly but firmly. “ I was as right 
as rain before then.” 
The visitor shook his head and smiled. 
“ Ah 1 you would have great difficulty in 
proving that,” he said, softly ; “ in fact, 
speaking as man to man , I don’t mind telling 
you it would be impossible. I’m afraid I’m 
exceeding my duty, but, as you’re the last on 
my list, suppose — suppose we say forty 
pounds. Forty ! A small fortune.” 
He added some more gold to the pile on the 
table, and gently tapped Mr. Scutts’ s arm 
with the end of the pen. 
“ Good afternoon,” said the invalid. 
The visitor, justly concerned at his lack of 
intelligence, took a seat on the edge of the 
bed and spoke to him as a friend and a brother , 
but in vain. Mr. Scutts reminded him at last 
that it was medicine-time, after which, pain 
and weakness permitting, he was going to try 
to get a little sleep. 
“ Forty pounds ! ” he sai.: to his wife, after 
the official had departed. “ Why didn’t J e 
offer me a bag o’ sweets ? ” 
“ It’s a lot o’ money,” said Mrs. Scutts, 
wistfully. 
“ So’s a thousand,” said her husband. “ I 
ain’t going to ave my back broke for nothing. 
1 can tell you. Now, you keep that mouth 
o’ yours shut, and, if I get it, you shall ’ave 
a new pair o’ boots.” 
“ A thousand ! ” exclaimed the startled 
Mrs. Scutts. “ Have you took leave of your 
senses, or what ? ” 
“ T read a case in the paper where a man 
got it,” said Mr. Scutts. “ He ’ad his back 
’urt, too, pore chap. How would you like to 
lay on your back all your life for a thousand 
pounds ? ” 
“ Will you ’ave to lay abed all your life ? ” 
inquired his wife, staring. 
“ Wait till I get the money,” said Mr. 
Scutts ; “ then I might be able to tell you 
better.” 
He gazed wistfully at the window. It was 
late October, but the sun shone and the air 
was clear. The sound of traffic and cheerful 
voices ascended from the little street. To 
Mr. Scutts it all seemed to be a part of a 
distant past. 
“ If that chap comes round to-morrow and 
offers me five hundred,” he said, slowly, “ I 
don’t know as I won’t take it. I’m sick of 
this mouldy bed.” 
He waited expectantly next day, but nothing 
happened, and after a week of bed he began to 
realize that the job might be a long one. The 
monotony, to a man of his active habits, 
became almost intolerable, and the narrated 
adventures of Mr. James Flynn, his only caller, 
filled him with an uncontrollable longing to be 
up and doing. 
The fine weather went, and Mr. Scutts, in 
his tumbled bed, lay watching the rain beat- 
ing softly on the window-panes. Then one 
morning he awoke to the darkness of a London 
fog. 
“ It gets worse and worse,” said Mrs. Scutts, 
as she returned home in the afternoon with 
a relish for his tea. “ Can’t see your ’and 
before your face.” 
Mr. Scutts looked thoughtful. He ate his 
tea in silence, and after he had finished lit his 
pipe and sat up in bed smoking. 
“ Penny for your thoughts,” said his wife. 
“I’m going out,” said Mr. Scutts, in a 
voice that defied opposition. “ I’m going to 
’ave a walk, and when I’m far enough away 
I’m going to ’ave one or two drinks. I believe 
this "fog is sent a-purpose to save my life.” 
