If you could only live to see Teddy at the age o' ninety-five, 'e wouldn't want to go then.
'E'd say it was crool hard, being cut off in the flower of 'is youth." Mrs.Silk laughed gaily and Mr.Wilks bellowed a gruff accompaniment.
Mr.Edward Silk eyed them pityingly.
"That's the 'ardship of it," he said, slowly, as he looked round from his seat by the fireplace; "that's where the 'ollowness of things comes in.
That's where I envy Mr.Wilks." "Envy me ?" said the smiling visitor; "what for ?" "Because you're so near the grave," said Mr.Silk.
Mr.Wilks, who was taking another draught of beer, put the glass down and eyed him fixedly.
"That's why I envy you," continued the other.
"I don't want to live, and you do, and yet I dessay I shall be walking about forty and fifty years after you're dead and forgotten." "Wot d'ye mean--near the grave ?" inquired Mr.Wilks, somewhat shortly.
"I was referring to your age," replied the other; "it's strange to see 'ow the aged 'ang on to life.

You can't 'ave much pleasure at your time o' life.

And you're all alone; the last withered branch left." "Withered branch!" began Mr.Wilks; "'ere, look 'ere, Teddy----" "All the others 'ave gone," pursued Mr.Silk, "and they're beckoning to you." "Let 'em beckon," said Mr.Wilks, coldly.

"I'm not going yet." "You're not young," said Mr.Silk, gazing meditatively at the grate, "and I envy you that.

It can only be a matter of a year or two at most before you are sleeping your last long sleep." "Teddy!" protested Mrs.Silk.
"It's true, mother," said the melancholy youth.