He made up his mind at once.  Turning quickly on his heel to face his visitor, he said:—­

“I want you to understand that I’m not afraid of you nor of your story, but I don’t want to be bothered with you.  Now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do.  I’ll give you one hundred dollars in cash to-night, on condition that you will leave this town by the first train in the morning, that you’ll not go to Wilkesbarre, that you’ll not come back here inside of a year, and that you’ll not mention a word of this matter to any one so long as you shall live.”

The lawyer spoke with determined earnestness.  Rhyming Joe looked up at the ceiling as if in doubt.

Finally, he said:—­

  “Split the difference and call it even,
  A hundred and fifty and I’ll be leavin’.”

Sharpman was whirling the knob of his safe back and forth.  At last he flung open the safe-door.

“I don’t care,” he said, looking around at his visitor, “whether your story is true or false.  We’ll call it true if that will please you.  But if I ever hear of your lisping it again to any living person, I give you my word for it you shall be sorry.  I pay you your own price for your silence; now I want you to understand that I’ve bought it and it’s mine.”

He had taken a package of bank-notes from a drawer in his safe, had counted out a portion of them, and now handed them to Rhyming Joe.

“Certainly,” said the young man, “certainly; no one can say that I have ever failed to keep an honest obligation; and between you and me there shall be the utmost confidence and good faith.

  “Though woman’s vain, and man deceives,
  There’s always honor among—­gentlemen.

“I beg your pardon! it’s the first time in fifteen years that I have failed to find an appropriate rhyming word; but the exigencies of a moment, you will understand, may destroy both rhyme and reason.”

He was folding the bills carefully and placing them in a shabby purse while Sharpman looked down on him with undisguised ill will.

“Now,” said the lawyer, “I expect that you will leave the city on the first train in the morning, and that you will not stop until you have gone at least a hundred miles.  Here! here’s enough more money to pay your fare that far, and buy your dinner”; and he held out, scornfully, toward the young man, another bank-bill.

Rhyming Joe declined it with a courteous wave of his hand, and, rising, began, with much dignity, to button his coat.

“I have already received,” he said, “the quid pro quo of the bargain.  I do not sue for charity nor accept it.  Reserve your financial favors for the poor and needy.

  “Go find the beggar crawling in the sun,
     Or him that’s worse;
   But don’t inflict your charity on one
     With well filled purse.”

Sharpman looked amused and put the money back into his pocket.  Then a bit of his customary politeness returned to him.