"No, I won't," drawled Chancey, imitating with coarse buffoonery the intonation of the request—"I won't do a little one for you."
"Well, for ten pounds—for ten only."
"No, nor for ten pence," rejoined Chancey, tranquilly.
"You may keep five out of it for the discount—for friendship—only let me have five—just five," urged the wasted gambler, with an agony of supplication.
"No, I won't; just five," replied the lawyer.
"I'll make it payable to-morrow," urged the suppliant.
"Maybe you'll be dead before that," drawled Chancey, with a sneer; "the life don't look very tough in you."
"Ah! Mr. Chancey, dear sir—good Mr. Chancey," said the young man, "you often told me you'd do me a friendly turn yet. Do not you remember it?—when I was able to lend you money. For God's sake, lend me five pounds now, or anything; I'll give you half my winnings. You'll save me from beggary—ah, sir, for old friendship."
Mr. Gordon Chancey seemed wondrously tickled by this appeal; he gazed sleepily at the fire while he raked the embers with the toe of his shoe, stuffed his hands deep into his breeches pockets, and indulged in a sort of lazy, comfortable laughter, which lasted for several minutes, until at length it subsided, leaving him again apparently unconscious of the presence of his petitioner. Emboldened by the condescension of his quondam friend, the young man made a piteous effort to join in the laughter—an attempt, however, which was speedily interrupted by the hollow cough of consumption. After a pause of a minute or two, during which Chancey seemed to have forgotten his existence, he once more addressed that gentleman,—
"Well, sir—well, Mr. Chancey?"