“Good friends are few,” says the Don, “and they who lend need some better security for repayment than chance.  For my own part, I would as soon fling straws to a drowning man as attempt to save you and that child from ruin by setting you on your feet to-day only to fall again to-morrow.”

“If that be so, Senor,” says I, “you had some larger view in mind than that of offering temporary relief to our misery when you gave us a supper and Moll a bed for the night.”

Don Sanchez assented with a grave inclination of his head, and going to the door opened it sharply, listened awhile, and then closing it softly, returned and stood before us with folded arms.  Then, in a low voice, not to be heard beyond the room, he questioned us very particularly as to our relations with other men, the length of time we had been wandering about the country, and especially about the tractability of Moll.  And, being satisfied with our replies,—­above all, with Jack’s saying that Moll would jump out of window at his bidding, without a thought to the consequences,—­he says: 

“There’s a comedy we might play to some advantage if you were minded to take the parts I give you and act them as I direct.”

“With all my heart,” cries Dawson.  “I’ll play any part you choose; and as to the directing, you’re welcome to that, for I’ve had my fill of it.  If you can make terms with our landlord, those things in the yard shall be yours, and for our payment I’m willing to trust to your honour’s generosity.”

“As regards payment,” says the Don, “I can speak precisely.  We shall gain fifty thousand pounds by our performance.”

“Fifty thousand pounds,” says Jack, as if in doubt whether he had heard aright.  Don Sanchez bent his head, without stirring a line in his face.

Dawson took up his beaker slowly, and looked in it, to make sure that he was none the worse for drink, then, after emptying it, to steady his wits, he says again: 

“Fifty thousand pounds.”

“Fifty thousand pounds, if not more; and that there be no jealousies one of the other, it shall be divided fairly amongst us,—­as much for your friend as for you, for the child as for me.”

“Pray God, this part be no more than I can compass,” says Jack, devoutly.

“You may learn it in a few hours—­at least, your first act.”

“And mine?” says I, entering for the first time into the dialogue.

The Don hunched his shoulders, lifting his eyebrows, and sending two streams of smoke from his nose.

“I scarce know what part to give you, yet,” says he.  “To be honest, you are not wanted at all in the play.”

“Nay, but you must write him a part,” says Dawson, stoutly; “if it be but to bring in a letter—­that I am determined on.  Kit stood by us in ill fortune, and he shall share better, or I’ll have none of it, nor Moll neither.  I’ll answer for her.”

“There must be no discontent among us,” says the Don, meaning thereby, as I think, that he had included me in his stratagem for fear I might mar it from envy.  “The girl’s part is that which gives me most concern—­and had I not faith in my own judgment—­”