"My dear Miss Thackeray," he exclaimed, "this transaction is solely between your father and me. I shall have no other claim to press."
"I wish I could believe that," she said.
"You may believe it," he assured her.
"It isn't the usual course," she said quietly, and her face brightened. "You are not like most men, Mr. Barnes."
"My dear child," said Rushcroft, "you must leave this matter to our friend and me. I fancy I know an honest man when I see him. My dear fellow, fortune is but temporarily frowning upon me. In a few weeks I shall be on my feet again, zipping along on the crest of the wave. I dare say I can return the money to you in a month or six weeks. If—"
"Oh, father!" cried Miss Thackeray.
"We'll make it six months, and I'll pay any rate of interest you desire. Six per cent, eight per cent, ten per—"
"Six per cent, sir, and we will make it a year from date."
"Agreed. And now, Miss Tilly, will you ask the barmaid,—who happens to be masculine,—to step in here and take the orders? We would drink to Dame Fortune, who has a smile that defies all forms of adversity. Out of the clouds falls a slice of silver lining. It alights in my trembling palm. I—I—Damme, sir, you are a nobleman! In behalf of my daughter, my company and the—Heaven forfend! I was about to add the accursed management!—I thank you. Get up and dance for us, Dilly! We shall be in New York to-morrow!"
"You forget the dictatorial sheriff, Mr. Rushcroft," said Barnes.