The old man got up and hunted about for pen and paper. "Here's a prescription blank," he said; "that will do." An ink-bottle stood on the narrow mantel-shelf, a rusty pen corroding in its thickening depths; but Dr. Lavendar, in a very small, shaky old hand, managed to scrawl that "Algernon Keen, for value received, promised to pay to John Gordon—"
—"in a year," Algy broke in; "I ain't going to have it run but a year—and put in the interest, sir. I'll have no favors from 'em. I'll pay interest; I'll pay six per cent.—like anybody else would."
—"and interest on same," Dr. Lavendar added. "Now, you sign here, Algy. There! that will please Mary."
"Oh, my!" said Algernon, his poor, red-rimmed eyes filling—"oh, my! my! what will I do without her?"
V
The next day Dr. Lavendar carried the note back to old John Gordon, who took it, his mouth tightening, and glanced at it in silence. Then he shuffled over to a safe in the corner of his library and pulled out a japanned tin box. Dr. Lavendar watched him fumble with the combination lock, holding the box up to catch the light, and shaking it a little until the lid clicked open. "He'll never pay it," John Gordon said.
"He'll try to," Dr. Lavendar said; "but it's doubtful, of course. He's a sickly fellow, and he hasn't much gumption. But if there's any good in him, your trusting him will bring it out."
"There isn't any good in him," the other said, violently.
And that was the last they said about it; for the time Algernon Keen dropped out of their lives.