“What! You don’t mean to say that you, my hero on ’Change, who are turning over money, as it were, with a pitchfork, are coming to me?”
“I am, though, so no humbug.”
“’Pon my word! A fellow with a dad like a Rothschild and a brother that—here, why don’t you ask the noble Clive?”
“Hang Clive!” snapped out Jessop.
“Certainly, my dear fellow, if you wish it,” said John Wrigley. “Hang Clive! Will that do?”
“I don’t care about worrying the old man, and there’s a little thing on in Argentines this morning. I want a hundred at once.”
“In paper?”
“Look here, Wrigley, if you won’t let me have the stuff, say so, and I’ll go to some one else.”
“And pay twice as much as I shall charge, my dear boy. Don’t be so peppery. Most happy to oblige you, and without consulting my friend in the City, who will have to sell out at a loss, eh? A hundred, eh?”
“Yes, neat.”