At three o'clock the next day, Blake, Drysdale and Tom were in the back parlor of a second-rate inn, in the Corn-market. On the table were pens and ink, some cases of Eau-de-Cologne and jewelry, and behind it a fat man of forbidding aspect who spent a day or two in each term at Oxford. He held in his thick red damp hand, ornamented as to the fore-finger with a huge ring, a piece of paper.
“Then I shall draw for a hundred-and-five?”
“If you do we won't sign,” said Drysdale; “now, be quick, Ben” (the fat man's name was Benjamin), “you infernal shark, we've been wrangling long enough over it. Draw for 100L at three months, or we're off.”
“Then, Mr. Drysdale, you gents will take part in goods. I wish to do all I can for gents as comes well introduced, but money is very scarce just now.”
“Not a stuffed bird, bottle of Eau-de-Cologne, ring or cigar, will we have. So now, no more nonsense, put down 75L on the table.”
The money-lender, after another equally useless attempt to move Drysdale, who was the only one of the party who spoke, produced a roll of bills, and counted out 75L, thinking to himself that he would make this young spark sing a different tune before very long. He then filled up the piece of paper, muttering that the interest was nothing considering the risk, and he hoped they would help him to some thing better with some of their friends. Drysdale reminded him, in terms not too carefully chosen, that he was getting cent per cent. The document was signed,—Drysdale took the notes, and they went out.
“Well, that's well over,” said Drysdale, as they walked towards High Street. “I'm proud of my tactics, I must say; one never does so well for oneself as for anyone else. If I had been on my own hook, that fellow would have let me in for 20L worth of stuffed birds and bad jewelry. Let's see, what do you want, Blake?”
“Sixty will do,” said Blake.
“You had better take 65L; there'll be some law costs to pay,” and Drysdale handed him the notes.
“Now, Brown, shall we divide the balance,—a fiver a piece?”