“You are not in love or your wits would be as dull as mine,” his friend replied. “But sit down, sit down, and tell me all about yourself.”
“I thought you wanted to do the telling.”
“Well, I do, confound you, but——”
“What’s all this?” interrupted Adam. He had caught sight, on the table, of two glittering heaps of money, English coins, piled in two apparently equal divisions on the cloth.
“That? Oh, nothing, your share and mine,” said Wainsworth, taking Adam’s hat and sweeping one of the heaps into its maw with utter unconcern. “Stow it away and be seated.”
“Well, but——” started Rust.
“Stow it, stow it!” interrupted Wainsworth. “I didn’t bother you with buts and whyfores when you divided with me. I have something of more importance to chat about.”
“This is ten times as much as I gave to you,” objected Adam, doggedly.
“You gave me ten times more than you kept yourself, when it meant ten times as great a favor. I am mean enough only to divide even,” answered Wainsworth. “Say anything more about it, and I shall pitch my share out of the window.”
As a matter of fact, Rust had impoverished himself for this friend, when in England, at a moment most vital in Wainsworth’s career. He had no argument, therefore, against accepting this present, much-needed capital. He placed the clinking coins in his pocket, not without a sense of deep obligation to his friend. It made one more bond between them, cementing more firmly than ever that affectionate regard between them, on the strength of which either would have made a great personal sacrifice for the other. No sooner, however, had Adam cleared his hat and weighted his clothing with the money, than he realized that the only good argument he had possessed to oppose to Captain Phipps’ scheme to take him away from Boston, namely, his poverty, was now utterly nullified. He started as if to speak, but it was already too late. If the Captain found him out, what could he say or do?