“Important? Yes,” he replied, “though I say it myself, perhaps the most so in Roumania.”
“That being the case,” I replied easily, “I believe I’ll have a little more, say £200,” and I lighted a fresh cigar.
It was cruel to do it right before them all, but I needed the money, and quickly at that.
Rodwaner actually turned pale. One of the clerks, whom I learned was his son, burst forth in German that, already this strange man had borrowed £100, with little or no security, and he objected. I could see that there was a row on, and I must confess that I was mean enough to enjoy it thoroughly.
The banker wavered for a second. What should he do? At this moment one of the by-standers, a Greek money-lender, called from the back of the crowd:
“I have the moneys for Monsieur if Rodwaner cannot do.”
This turned the scale.
“Ha, Ha!” cried my friend. “You would steal my customers, you dirty pig. Rodwaner can lend—he will. He does so with pride,” and he booted the protesting son into the corner and then proceeded to clear the shop. Then he breathed a sigh of relief. His local prestige was safe. How much did I need?
“Two hundred pounds would do.”
Couldn’t I do with less, perhaps. I thought I might be satisfied with £150, and he began to dig. It was evident he hadn’t even that, and so I said we would make it a hundred flat. All his gold came only to £90.