“Well, then, can’t you see how the matter stands? It was I who sold them!”
“Well!”
“Mother of Moses, sir! Don’t you see I’m ruined?”
“By no means—but you must not swear. I pay over the money for your scrip, and you pocket a premium. It seems to me a very simple transaction.”
“But I tell you I haven’t got the scrip!” cried Sawley, gnashing his teeth, while the cold beads of perspiration gathered largely on his brow.
“That is very unfortunate! Have you lost it?”
“No! the devil tempted me, and I oversold!”
There was a very long pause, during which I assumed an aspect of serious and dignified rebuke.
“Is it possible?” said I, in a low tone, after the manner of Kean’s offended fathers. “What! you, Mr. Sawley—the stoker’s friend—the enemy of gambling—the father of Selina—condescend to so equivocal a transaction? You amaze me! But I never was the man to press heavily on a friend”—here Sawley brightened up. “Your secret is safe with me, and it shall be your own fault if it reaches the ears of the Session. Pay me over the difference at the present market price, and I release you of your obligation.”
“Then I’m in the Gazette, that’s all,” said Sawley, doggedly, “and a wife and nine beautiful babes upon the parish! I had hoped other things from you, Mr. Dunshunner—I thought you and Selina—”