"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mr. Sheldrake. "Not on my recommendation. Come, come, Staveley, this isn't friendly, you know."
"I think it is," replied Con; "there isn't a money-lender in London would let him have what he wants. Why, he can't even give security! Can't even give a good name at the back of a bill!"
"Isn't my name good enough?"
"For any amount; but we're friends, and I'm not to see you let in with my eyes open—"
"That's my affair," said Mr. Sheldrake warmly.
"It happens to be mine as well. I don't want to take money of my friends. Remember the three hundred you had to pay me last year, and the hundred and twenty for that poor woman—"
"Shut up!" interrupted Mr. Sheldrake. "Let my affairs alone. You've no business to mention those things. You know I don't like it. How much did you ask Mr. Staveley for, Alfred?"
"Fifty pounds; that's all. For three months only."
"A paltry fifty pounds!" exclaimed Mr. Sheldrake scornfully. "Why, you might win it on a horse fifty times over in five minutes! There's the Goodwood Cup and the Stakes going to be run for presently—"
"I've got the tip for the Cup," cried Alfred eagerly; "I can get thirty to one about it to-day. I'll pay Mr. Staveley directly the race is over, and any interest he likes to charge, and I'll give him the tip, too, if he likes." (Whereat something very like a grin appeared on Con's face.) "The horse only carries five stone seven. He can't lose!"