James Poynter sat polishing his hat with his handkerchief, and staring at Hendon with a contraction, half smile, half grin, upon his face.
“I tell you I can’t pay you. You forced the money upon me.”
“I forced it on you! Come, that’s a good one! Now, are you going to pay?”
“You know I can’t, Poynter. You must wait.”
“Not likely. Well, I must have my money, and what your father owes me too.”
“I have only your word that he does owe you money, James Poynter.”
“All right, Mr Hendon; go on. Insult me. The more patient I am the more advantage you take. Ask him if he don’t.”
“Ask him?” said the young man bitterly; “you know his mind is as good as gone.”
“Is it as bad as that?” said Poynter, with assumed pity, but his eyes twinkling with eagerness, as he wound the handkerchief round and round.
“Bad? Yes. Millington, our best man, saw him yesterday, and he says nothing but an operation and raising the bone pressing on the brain will relieve him; and at his age he would not be responsible for the result.”