“So that he sent you a blank acceptance?” cried Beecher, in amazement.
“Yaas, Just as you see,—'Christopher Davis,' and de flourish as usual. Ach, der Davis!” and he sighed once more.
The man who held Grog's signature on a blank stamp assumed no common shape in Annesley Beecher's eyes, and he continued to gaze on the old man with a strange sense of awe and astonishment. If he had not the document there before him on the table, he would not have believed it. The trustful courage of Van Amburgh, who used to place his head in the lion's mouth, seemed poor in comparison with such heroic boldness as this; and he gazed at the writing in a sort of fascination.
“And Grog actually sent you that over by letter?” asked he again.
“Yaas, as you see,” was the calm answer.
“Well, here goes then, Abraham—Lazarus, I mean; make it out for a matter of—five—no, eight—hang it, let as say ten thousand florins when we are about it! Ten thousand, at six months,—eh?”
“Better at tree months,—we can always renew,” said Stein, calmly.
“Of course; and by that time we may want a little more liquor in the decanter,—eh! old boy?” said Beecher, laughing joyfully.
“To be sure, vaary mush more liquor as you want it.”
“What a brick!” said Beecher, clapping him on the shoulder in all the ecstasy of delight.