“I—I don’t quite know,” said Beetle. It is difficult to improvise a going concern on the spur of the minute.
“You seemed certain enough just now.”
“I think it’s two and fourpence,” said McTurk, with a glance of cold scorn at Beetle. In the hopelessly involved finances of the study there was just that sum to which both McTurk and Beetle laid claim, as their share in the pledging of Stalky’s second-best Sunday trousers. But Stalky had maintained for two terms that the money was his “commission” for effecting the pawn; and had, of course, spent it on a study “brew.”
“Understand this, then. You are not to continue your operations as a money-lender. Two and fourpence, you said, Corkran?”
Stalky had said nothing, and continued so to do.
“Your influence for evil is quite strong enough without buying a hold over your companions.” He felt in his pockets, and (oh joy!) produced a florin and fourpence. “Bring me what you call Corkran’s note-of-hand, and be thankful that I do not carry the matter any further. The money is stopped from your pocket-money, Corkran. The receipt to my study, at once!”
Little they cared! Two and fourpence in a lump is worth six weekly sixpences any hungry day of the week.
“But what the dooce is a note-of-hand?” said Beetle. “I only read about it in a book.”
“Now you’ve jolly well got to make one,” said Stalky.
“Yes—but our ink don’t turn black till next day. S’pose he’ll spot that?”