"So I did; but I've taken off fifty for your greediness, Simon. I don't need to give you a single stiver if it comes to that."
"I'll never help you again!"
"Much I care!" retorted Gebb. "I can get on without you. And I can't say as I care to work with a man as doesn't know when his friend is doing him a good turn. You say another word, Simon Parge, and I'll reduce your reward to twenty-five pounds."
If Parge had been able to move he would no doubt have fallen on Gebb; but chained as he was to his chair, he could do nothing but glare at his junior with a fierce eye and a very red face. He knew very well that Gebb was acting in the most generous manner in offering to share the reward, so, fearful of losing all by opening his mouth too wide, he sulkily signified that half a loaf was better than none.
"I dare say it is," said Gebb, tartly; "but you only get a quarter of a loaf. I brought two fifty-pound notes with me, but as you have been so avaricious, you shall only have one. There it is;" and Gebb clapped a Bank of England note into the hand of Parge, which closed on it readily enough.
"And you keep one hundred and fifty," he said, with a frown.
"I do; and I've earned it, Simon, by the sweat of my brow. But now that I've behaved towards you a deal better than you deserve, I'll go and bank my money. You'll not see me here again in a hurry."
"No, no!" cried Parge, seeing that his greed had carried him too far, and softened by the money, which, after all, had been earned very easily. "Don't go, Absalom. I can't do without you."
"Haven't I been generous, Simon?"
"Yes, you have. Don't take a man up so short. Sit down and have a pipe and a glass of grog, and a talk over the case."