“Admitted, my young friend, your reasoning is just,” said the old gentleman, sitting down at a writing table and taking a cheque-book from a drawer; “what shall I put down?”
“You know your circumstances best,” said Charlie, somewhat amused by the question.
“Most people in ordinary circumstances,” returned the old man slowly as he wrote, “contribute a guinea to such charities.”
“Many people,” remarked Charlie, with a feeling of pity rather than contempt, “contribute five, or even fifteen.”
“Ah, indeed—yes, well, Mr Brooke, will you condescend to be the bearer of my contribution? Fourteen Saint John Street, Adelphi, is not far from this, and it will save a penny of postage, you know!”
Mr Crossley rose and handed the cheque to his visitor, who felt half disposed—on the strength of the postage remark—to refuse it and speak his mind somewhat freely on the subject, but, his eye happening to fall on the cheque at the moment, he paused.
“You have made a mistake, I think,” he said. “This is for five hundred pounds.”
“I make no mistakes, Mr Brooke,” returned the old man sternly. “You said something about five or fifteen. I could not well manage fifteen hundred just now, for it is bad times in the city at present. Indeed, according to some people, it is always bad times there, and, to say truth, some people are not far wrong—at least as regards their own experiences. Now, I must be off to business. Good-bye. Don’t forget to impress on your friend the importance of punctuality.”
Jacob Crossley held out his hand with an expression of affability which was for him quite marvellous.
“You’re a much better man than I thought!” exclaimed Charlie, grasping the proffered hand with a fervour that caused the other to wince.