MR. SMEETH IS WORRIED 480

thing about that heart of mine. It's rotten. There's
many and many a man—and I've known some of ?em—
who's dropped in the street with a heart not so bad as
mine. Been missing the beat for years, missing it all
over the place. Same with the kidneys. They're rotten,
too. But, mind you, Mr. Smeeth, it's not all the kidneys.
There's the liver to be taken into consideration. They're
overlooking that, so far they are, but I'm just waiting
for 'em to come round to my opinion. I'm not saying
anything. I'm just letting 'em find out a few things
for themselves. One of these days, that young doctor's
going to notice my liver and then he's going to have
another surprise. And that isn't ail, either." Here the
astonishing image, after a little effort, produced some-
thing like a chuckle. T. Benenden was exiled from his
shop and his financial columns and his chats with
customers, but now he had discovered in his ailments
and dubious organs a new and absorbing interest, and,
stretched out there, he saw himself as a romantic and
exciting figure. Within sight of death, he was beginning
life all over again.

Mr. Smeeth caught a fleeting glimpse of this fact, but
he was in no mood to appreciate it. The spectacle of
Benenden, suddenly transformed from a familiar Angel
Pavement character, and comic at that, to this infirm
shadow of himself, filled him with dismay and fore-
boding. Try as he might, he could not help believing
that he would never see T. Benenden behind that
counter again. As he listened—for Benenden did most of
the talking, slowly boasting of the severity and compli-
cation of his ailments—Mr. Smeeth told himself that
never again would the tobacconist bring out the canister
of Benenden's Own Mixture for him.