Whi. Oh! you mean ugly old Tom Cobb! I beg your pardon—but he was so like you I couldn’t help it. But there, that needn’t distress you—for he died last night, and there’s an end of him. Never mind, old boy, I’ll make it up to you some day.
Tom (suddenly). Will you? Whipple, I’m in an awful fix about Ben Isaacs’ bills; now you’re well off—I did your botany paper for you at the College—will you lend me £250 on my personal security? I want a plain answer—yes or no.
Whi. My dear boy, of course; with pleasure.
Tom (delighted and surprised). My dear Whipple!
Whi. You shall have it, of course. (Feeling for his handkerchief.)
Tom. When?
Whi. Why, now, if you like.
Tom. What—the money?
Whi. No; the plain answer. (Takes out handkerchief, uses it, and returns it.) I haven’t a penny at my bankers. I’ve lent it all—to the colonel. What have you done with the money?
Tom. Well, I lent it all to—the Colonel. He borrowed it the very day he agreed to my engagement with Matilda; didn’t he, dear?