Old Max never swore. Had he been one of the common and profane crowd of worldlings, it may be that some imprecation on General Indigo would have issued from his lips; for the mention of that name made him very angry. But old Max had a settled conviction of the probable consignment to perdition of the rich nabob—who was doubtless a purse-proud, tyrannous, godless old fellow—which far surpassed, in its comforting power, the ephemeral satisfaction of an oath. He struck his clenched hand on the counter, and said, testily, "You have not heard what I had it in my mind to say! You are too rash, young man, and broke in on my discourse before it was finished!"
"I beg pardon. Did I?"
"I say that I am not given to lending nor to borrowing; and it is most true. But I have not said that I will refuse to assist you. This is a special case, and must be judged of specially as between you and me."
"Why, of course, I would rather be obliged to you than to the general, who is a stranger to me, in fact, though he is my godfather."
"There's nearer ties than godfathers, Algernon."
Algernon burst into a peal of genuine laughter. "Why, yes," said he, wiping his eyes, "I hope so!"
Old Max did not move a muscle of his face. "What was the sum you named?" he asked, solemnly.
"Oh, I don't know—twenty or thirty pounds would do. Something just to keep me going until my mother's next quarter's money comes in."
"I will lend you twenty pounds, Algernon, for which you will write me an acknowledgment."
"Certainly!"