“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—­”

“Nonsense, man!  Nobody goes into the Gazette just now—­it will be time enough when the general crash comes.  Out with your cheque-book, and write me an order for four and twenty thousand.  Confound fractions!  In these days one can afford to be liberal.”

“I haven’t got it,” said Sawley.  “You have no idea how bad our trade has been of late, for nobody seems to think of dying.  I have not sold a gross of coffins this fortnight.  But I’ll tell you what—­I’ll give you five thousand down in cash, and ten thousand in shares; further I can’t go.”

“Now, Mr. Sawley,” said I, “I may be blamed by worldly-minded persons for what I am going to do; but I am a man of principle, and feel deeply for the situation of your amiable wife and family.  I bear no malice, though it is quite clear that you intended to make me the sufferer.  Pay me fifteen thousand over the counter, and we cry quits for ever.”

“Won’t you take the Camlachie Cemetery shares?  They are sure to go up.”

“No!”

“Twelve hundred Cowcaddens Water, with an issue of new stock next week?”

“Not if they disseminated the Gauges!”

“A thousand Ramshorn Gas—­four per cent. guaranteed until the act?”

“Not if they promised twenty, and melted down the sun in their retort!”

“Blawweary Iron?  Best spec. going.”

“No, I tell you once for all!  If you don’t like my offer,—­and it is an uncommonly liberal one,—­say so, and I’ll expose you this afternoon upon ’Change.”

“Well then, there’s a cheque.  But may the—­”

“Stop, sir!  Any such profane expressions, and I shall insist upon the original bargain.  So then, now we’re quits.  I wish you a very good-morning, Mr. Sawley, and better luck next time.  Pray remember me to your amiable family.”

The door had hardly closed upon the discomfited coffin-maker, and I was still in the preliminary steps of an extempore pas seul, intended as the outward demonstration of exceeding inward joy, when Bob M’Corkindale entered.  I told him the result of the morning’s conference.