“I am always astounded at how quickly those scamps can move when they travel in the direction of the nearest pub,” Ballentyre said, his standard observation on a Saturday afternoon. “Shall we to the books, gentlemen?”

Eddie sorted through the stack of ledgers and chose two. His specialty, other than looking dapper and dashing, was commercial and agricultural real estate. He passed Howell two other ledgers having to do with general business accounts—butchers, bakers, and the like.

“Where is James?” Howell asked, taking the ledgers to a clerk’s desk.

“He went home hours ago,” Ballentyre said. “Poor fellow was done in with an ague. Dashed weather makes my gout act up abominably.”

Eddie returned to Ballentyre’s desk and sorted two more ledgers from the pile. “I can review his share of the books.”

When did Eddie ever volunteer for extra work?

“Good of you, young Edward,” Ballentyre replied. “Always said the Dorsets were a hardworking bunch.”

Howell plucked one of the account books from his brother’s hands. “No reason you should have to do all the extra work. Damned snow is starting to pile up, and the sooner we finish here, the sooner we’ll be home before a warm fire with a tot of grog.”

“Grog’s the thing,” Ballentyre muttered. “Nothing like a toddy to ward off the chill. I believe Mr. Bitzer’s handwriting becomes more crabbed by the week.”

Another frequent rejoinder from Ballentyre. Howell brought two lamps over from the vacated desks.

“Maybe that will help. Gloomy weather never did make close work easier.”

Ballentyre’s desk was beside the parlor stove, meaning he had less natural light to illuminate his labors. Not that he labored long or hard. Within minutes, he was snoring contently, a ledger open before him, his hands folded across his belly.

“Such a dear old thing,” Eddie said. “Once he’s planted himself on that cushion of a morning, I don’t believe he moves until noon. How he becomes fatigued enough to nap is a mystery.”

Howell slid onto a hard stool at a desk by the windows. “He’s getting worse, but then, you probably share more than a pint with him at your Saturday luncheons.” Those luncheons had become a regular habit, now that Howell thought about it.

“If you look over old Ballie’s ledgers, I’ll do James’s,” Eddie said.

“Fair enough.” Howell eased the open account book from beneath Mr. Ballentyre’s hands, which provoked a few peaceful snuffles, but did not rouse the dreamer.

“Will you apply for Ballie’s job when he retires?” Eddie asked, running a pencil down a column of figures.

“I didn’t realize Ballie was going out to pasture.” Howell started on the weekly totals, and right off, found an error.

“You should apply,” Eddie said, turning a page. “Let Elsmore know you’re interested, and the job is as good as yours.”