"At all events," he continued, "we must make the most of the years that remain. I am a rotten old carcass, but I have no intention of dying. You won't get tired of me and want to go away?" "I am devoted to you, sir," I said. "But I must be looking for some occupation, you know." "Occupation? bother! I'll give you occupation. I'll give you wages." "I am afraid that you will want to give me the wages without the work." And then I declared that I must go up and look at poor Theodore. The _bonhomme_ still kept my hands. "I wish very much that I could get you to be as fond of me as you are of poor Theodore." "Ah, don't talk about fondness, Mr. Sloane. I don't deal much in that article." "Don't you like my secretary?" "Not as he deserves." "Nor as he likes you, perhaps?" "He likes me more than I deserve." "Well, Max," my host pursued, "we can be good friends all the same. We don't need a hocus-pocus of false sentiment. We are _men_, aren't we?--men of sublime good sense." And just here, as the old man looked at me, the pressure of his hands deepened to a convulsive grasp, and the bloodless mask of his countenance was suddenly distorted with a nameless fear. "Ah, my dear young man!" he cried, "come and be a son to me--the son of my age and desolation! For God's sake, don't leave me to pine and die alone!" I was greatly surprised--and I may add I was moved. Is it true, then, that this dilapidated organism contains such measureless depths of horror and longing? He has evidently a mortal fear of death. I assured him on my honor that he may henceforth call upon me for any service.