“Indeed?” said the doctor, in what was meant as a sarcastic tone. “Nice honesty. Let alone my case, look at Madge Mullion.”
“Ah, poor lass, he hasn’t behaved very well to her. That’s what I think. But look here, Rumsey, I’ve won a few pounds of you in my time.”
“Have you? Well yes, I suppose you have, Chynoweth. You always seemed to make more of a study of whist than I did.”
“Eh? Yes. Think so?” said Chynoweth, glancing at his desk-lid to see that it was close. “But look here, Rumsey, it’s of no use to ask the governor for money now.”
“But I must. What am I to do?”
“Well, look here, I’ll lend you fifty pounds.”
“You—you, Chynoweth?”
“Yes,” said the little man, quietly; and, without noticing the excited, overcome look of his visitor, he methodically wrote put an I O U, and placed it before him to sign.
“This—this is more than I expected of you, Chynoweth,” said the doctor, huskily.
“Well, do you know, Rumsey, it’s more than I expected of myself. But there you are,” he continued, taking notes to the amount from his pocket-book, “and pay me back a little at a time.”