Eastward Ho

Mr. McAdam, of the firm of McAdam and Squire, was a highly polished man
who dwelt behind a highly polished table in the neatest and snuggest
of offices. He was white-haired and amiable, with a deep-lined aquiline
face, was addicted to low bows, and indeed, always seemed to carry
himself at half-cock, as though just descending into one, or just
recovering himself. He wore a high-buckled stock, took snuff, and
adorned his conversation with little scraps from the classics.

"My dear Sir," said he, when he had listened to their story, "any friend
of Mrs. Westmacott's is a friend of mine. Try a pinch. I wonder that
you should have gone to this man Metaxa. His advertisement is enough to
condemn him. Habet foenum in cornu. They are all rogues."

"The doctor was a rogue too. I didn't like the look of him at the time."

"Arcades ambo. But now we must see what we can do for you. Of course
what Metaxa said was perfectly right. The pension is in itself no
security at all, unless it were accompanied by a life assurance which
would be an income in itself. It is no good whatever."

His clients' faces fell.

"But there is the second alternative. You might sell the pension right
out. Speculative investors occasionally deal in such things. I have one
client, a sporting man, who would be very likely to take it up if we
could agree upon terms. Of course, I must follow Metaxa's example by
sending for a doctor."

For the second time was the Admiral punched and tapped and listened to.
This time, however, there could be no question of the qualifications
of the doctor, a well-known Fellow of the College of Surgeons, and his
report was as favorable as the other's had been adverse.