When he ascertained that
Mr. Lister when at home had free quarters at the house of a married
niece, he used to sit about alone, and try and think of ways and means of
securing capital sunk in a concern which seemed to show no signs of being
wound-up.
"I've got a touch of the 'art again, lad," said the elderly invalid, as
they sat alone in the forecastle one night at Seacole.
"You move about too much," said the cook. "Why not turn in and rest?"
Mr. Lister, who had not expected this, fidgeted. "I think I'll go ashore
a bit and try the air," he said, suggestively. "I'll just go as far as
the Black Horse and back. You won't have me long now, my lad."
"No, I know," said the cook; "that's what's worrying me a bit."
"Don't worry about me," said the old man, pausing with his hand on the
other's shoulder; "I'm not worth it. Don't look so glum, lad."
"I've got something on my mind, Jem," said the cook, staring straight in
front of him.
"What is it?" inquired Mr. Lister.
"You know what you told me about those pains in your inside?" said the
cook, without looking at him.
Jem groaned and felt his side.
"And what you said about its being a relief to die," continued the other,
"only you was afraid to commit suicide?"
"Well?" said Mr. Lister.
"It used to worry me," continued the cook, earnestly. "I used to say to
myself, 'Poor old Jem,' I ses, 'why should 'e suffer like this when he
wants to die? It seemed 'ard.
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