“Lackington, perhaps?”
“Yaas, dat is de name; and say, give him de moneys for his bill. Now, here is de acceptance, and here you put your sign, across dis.”
“I 'll write Annesley Beecher, with all my heart; but I 'll not write myself Lackington.”
“Den you no have de moneys, nor de Cuyp, nor de Ostade,” said the Jew, replacing the pen in the ink-bottle.
“Just let me ask you, old boy, how would it benefit you that I should commit a forgery? Is that the way you like to do business?”
“I do know myself how I like my business to do, and no man teach me.”
“What the devil did Davis mean, then, by sending me on this fool's errand? He gave me a distinct intimation that you 'd cash my acceptance—”
“Am I not ready? You never go and say to der Davis dat I refuse it! Ah, der Davis!” and he sighed as if from the very bottom of his heart.
“I'll tell him, frankly, that you made it a condition I was to sign a name that does not belong to me,—that I 'll tell him.”
“What care he for dat? Der Davis write his own name on it and pay it hisself.”