While he was laid up, the eternal question of how to live on his income
had left him, relatively speaking, in peace. He had of late adopted the
habit of doing his scraping and saving at the outset of each quarter, so
as to get the money due to Ocock put by betimes. His illness had
naturally made a hole in this; and now the living from hand to mouth
must begin anew.
With what remained of Doyle's money he proposed to settle his account at
the livery-stable. Then the unexpected happened. His reappearance--he
looked very thin and washed-out--evidently jogged a couple of sleepy
memories. Simultaneously two big bills were paid, one of which he had
entirely given up. In consequence, he again found himself fifty pounds
to the good. And driving to Ocock's office, on term day, he resolved to
go on afterwards to the Bank of Australasia and there deposit this sum.
Grindle, set off by a pair of flaming "sideboards," himself ushered
Mahony into the sanctum, and the affair was disposed of in a trice.
Ocock was one of the busiest of men nowadays--he no longer needed to
invent sham clients and fictitious interviews--and he utilised the few
odd minutes it took to procure a signature, jot down a note, open a
drawer, unlock a tin box to remark abstractedly on the weather and put a
polite inquiry: "And your good lady? In the best of health, I trust?"
On emerging from the inner room, Mahony saw that the places formerly
filled by Tom and Johnny were occupied by strangers; and he was
wondering whether it would be indiscreet to ask what had become of the
brothers, when Ocock cut across his intention.
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