“Never mind, keeps all square. Now the £100. Here is a cheque of Gribble and Co. on Lloyd’s for £25 10s.”
“What’s the use of a cheque at this time of night?”
“Good as the bank, good as the money; you can pay it as money. Fifty sovereigns makes £75 10s., and a ten-pound note makes £85 10s.—stay, it ought to be £95 10s. Here’s another ten pound note. I forgot—there you are, £95 10s.—only wants £4 10s. to make up the £100. You haven’t got £4 10s. about you, have you Mr. Mathews, you could lend me till the morning, just to get it straight, you know.”
“I believe I have; there are four sovereigns and ten shillings in silver.”
“That’s all right; £4 makes £99 10s. and 10s.—stop, let’s count them—count after your own father, as the saying is—four and five’s nine, and three fourpenny pieces; all right. Stop—one’s a threepenny. Got a penny, or a post-office stamp? Never mind, I won’t be hard upon you for the penny. There you are, all comfortable. Good evening.”
Mathews paid away the cheque “as money.” Two days afterwards he got an indignant note, stating that the cheque was dishonoured. Out of temper, Mathews sent for the discounter, and he appeared with alacrity.
“Not paid! Gribble’s cheque not paid—some mistake—it’s as good as the Bank. Here, give it to me, I’ll get it for you in five minutes. How long shall you be here?”
“An hour.”
“I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
Mathews saw no more of the discounter or the cheque, the scoundrel entirely disappearing with the only proof in his pocket. But sometimes biters were bit, for an entry in one of the actor’s diaries, dated January 1843, states, “called on Lawrence Levy to pay him £30, but borrowed £20 of him instead.”