“What do you say?” he asked, almost gleefully, and he rubbed his palms together till the dry skin emitted a low, rasping sound.
Suddenly Nelson sank back into his chair and covered his face with his hands.
“What do you say?” repeated the old man; “surely you won't re—”
He was interrupted by Nelson, who suddenly looked up, and with a frank stare into the old man's face he said, calmly:
“No, I can't be a party to that, Mr. Floyd. I fully understand all it would mean to me before the world, but I am not willing to bear the stamp of a lie, no matter how justifiable it may seem, all through life. A man can enjoy being only what he really is, either high or low. No, sir, I appreciate your willingness to help me, but you can't do it that way.”
“Why, you—you can't mean to refuse!” old Floyd gasped.
“I have to,” said the young man. “As for the real dishonesty of the thing, I might as well be any other sort of impostor. No, I want to be only what I am in this world. Besides, I can't be a party to your swearing a lie. No, I'll have to decline.”
“Then—then,” the old man groaned—“then I can't take your money.”
“But you'll have to,” Nelson smiled, sadly. “I can make you do it. I'll give you no other recourse. I shall simply instruct the bank in the morning to place it to your credit and charge it to my account. If you don't draw it out, neither you nor I will get the benefit of it, for I shall never touch it again.”
Taking his hat, Nelson moved towards the door, followed by the tottering, faintly protesting old man. And as he was leaving the last words the visitor heard were: “I can't take it, sir. I can't take money from you, as bad as I need it. I can't—I can't!”