"How?" asked the ex-broker, with staring eyes.
"I'll lend the money."
The major dropped Brown's hand.
"You heavenly lunatic!" said he. "I always did think religion made fools of men when they got too much of it. Then I could go back on the Street again; the boys would be glad to see me clear myself—not meeting my engagements wouldn't be remembered against me. But, say—borrow money from an old rival to make myself right with the girl he loved! No, excuse me. I've got some sense of honor left!"
"You mean you love yourself more than you do her," suggested Brown. "I'll telegraph about the money, and you write her in the meantime. Don't ruin her happiness for life by delay or trifling."
The major became a business man again.
"Brown," said he, "I'll take your offer; and, whatever comes of it, you'll have one friend you can swear to as long as I live. You haven't the money with you?"
"No," said Brown; "but you shall have it in a fortnight. I'll telegraph about it, and go East and settle the business for you, so you can come back without fear."
"You're a trump; but—don't think hard of me—money's never certain till you have it in hand. I'll write and send my letter East by you; when the matter's absolutely settled, you can telegraph me, and mail her my letter. I'd expect to be shot if I made such a proposal to any other rival, but you're not a man—you're a saint. Confound you, all the sermons I ever heard hadn't as much real goodness in them as I've heard the last ten minutes! But 'twould be awful for me to write and then have the thing slip up!"
Brown admitted the justice of the major's plan, and took the major to his own hotel to keep him from bad company.