But
the business of the Bank, and the business of the sick-room, had to go on,
though the glass was 116 degrees in the shade.
At the end of the third month, Riley was sinking fast, and had begun to
realize that he was very sick. But the conceit that made him worry Reggie,
kept him from believing the worst. "He wants some sort of mental stimulant if
he is to drag on," said the doctor.
"Keep him interested in life if you care about his living." So Riley, contrary
to all the laws of business and the finance, received a 25-per-cent, rise of
salary from the Directors. The "mental stimulant" succeeded beautifully. Riley
was happy and cheerful, and, as is often the case in consumption, healthiest
in mind when the body was weakest. He lingered for a full month, snarling and
fretting about the Bank, talking of the future, hearing the Bible read,
lecturing Reggie on sin, and wondering when he would be able to move abroad.
But at the end of September, one mercilessly hot evening, he rose up in his
bed with a little gasp, and said quickly to Reggie:--"Mr. Burke, I am going to
die. I know it in myself. My chest is all hollow inside, and there's nothing
to breathe with. To the best of my knowledge I have done nowt"--he was
returning to the talk of his boyhood--"to lie heavy on my conscience.
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