Well, as you know, I haven't many, and
those clients of Farrell's have lightened me of worldly furniture.
What's become of Farrell, by the way?"
"He's retiring from the contest, and has been advised to travel for
the good of his health. The Sunday papers settled it with their
reports of the Police Court proceedings. . . . What! Haven't you
heard?"
"Now I come to think of it, Travers tried to tell me some story . . .
but I wasn't listening. . . . In trouble, is he? Good. Not going to
hang him, are they? Good."
"The actual decision," said I, "was taken at the Whips' Office
yesterday morning. Farrell goes. There's just time to put up a
working-man candidate in his stead. But the seat's lost."
"Good," repeated Jack tranquilly. "Eh? . . . Oh, I beg your pardon,
Roddy: I was looking at it from--well, from a different angle. . . .
Let's get back to my plan. Wasn't it Huck Finn who wished it were
possible to die temporarily? That's what I'm going to do, anyhow:
and I want you to be my executor."
"I should need an inventory of your worldly goods, to start with,"
said I gravely.
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