So you have agreed to accept seven-and-six-pence in the pound from Hatchard?” Oxley said in his slow, quiet manner, as he smoked with his two friends after luncheon at the Club. “I could not attend the meeting, but I hear that the affairs showed badly.”
“Yes, we took the sum he offered, and of course it would have done no good to put him in the Bankruptcy Court, as far as the dividend is concerned: very likely we should only have netted half-a-crown; but I had a good mind to refuse a composition.” And in his excitement Beazley established himself for oratorical purposes on the hearthrug,—he had recently taken to municipal politics.
“You mean that Hatchard has acted foolishly, and ought not to have got into such a hole. I suppose you are right: Tommy was always a sanguine chap.”
“Sanguine has nothing to do with it, Oxley, and I fancy you know that there's more than want of judgment at Hatchard's door. Of course the longest-headed men in the corn trade may make a mistake and be caught by a falling market, but that is no reason why a fellow should take in every friend he could lay hands on. What do you say, Macfarlane?”
That most phlegmatic and silent of Scots never said anything unless speech was absolutely necessary; and as the proposition that a man ought not to cheat his friends was one no person could deny, Macfarlane gave no sign.
“I'm afraid that it is a rather bad case,” Oxley admitted with reluctance, “but I'm sorry for Tommy: when a man is at his wits' end he's apt to... forget himself, in fact, and do things he would be the first to condemn at other times. A man loses his moral presence of mind.”
Macfarlane indicated, after consideration, his agreement.
“That sounds very fine, Oxley,” burst in Beaz-ley, “but it's very dangerous doctrine and would cover some curious transactions. Hatchard knew quite well that when he was hopelessly bankrupt he ought not to have borrowed a thousand from Macfarlane and you and five hundred from me: our business losses were enough.”
“Had none,” murmured Macfarlane to himself.
“I was so angry,” continued Beazley, “that I got hold of him afterwards in Fenwick Street and gave him as sound a talking to as ever a man got in this city: he'll not forget it in a hurry. You see he is a friend, and that makes me sore.”