“How much do you require at present?” said Edward, provoking his appetite for a loan.

“Oh, fifty—­that is, just now.  More like a thousand when I get to town.  And where it’s to come from! but never mind.  ’Pon my soul, I pity the fox I run down here.  I feel I’m exactly in his case in London.  However, if I can do you any service, Ned—­”

Edward laughed.  “You might have done me the service of not excusing yourself to the squire when he came here, in such a way as to implicate me.”

“But I was so tremendously badgered, Ned.”

“You had a sort of gratification in letting the squire crow over his brother.  And he did crow for a time.”

“On my honour, Ned, as to crowing! he went away cursing at me.  Peggy Lovell managed it somehow for you.  I was really awfully badgered.”

“Yes; but you know what a man my father is.  He hasn’t the squire’s philosophy in those affairs.”

“’Pon my soul, Mr. Ned, I never guessed it before; but I rather fancy you got clear with Sir Billy the banker by washing in my basin—­eh, did you?”

Edward looked straight at his cousin, saying, “You deserved worse than that.  You were treacherous.  You proved you were not to be trusted; and yet, you see, I trust you.  Call it my folly.  Of course (and I don’t mind telling you) I used my wits to turn the point of the attack.  I may be what they call unscrupulous when I’m surprised.  I have to look to money as well as you; and if my father thought it went in a—­what he considers—­wrong direction, the source would be choked by paternal morality.  You betrayed me.  Listen.”

“I tell you, Ned, I merely said to my governor—­”

“Listen to me.  You betrayed me.  I defended myself; that is, I’ve managed so that I may still be of service to you.  It was a near shave; but you now see the value of having a character with one’s father.  Just open my writing-desk there, and toss out the cheque-book.  I confess I can’t see why you should have objected—­but let that pass.  How much do you want?  Fifty?  Say forty-five, and five I’ll give you to pay to Sedgett—­making fifty.  Eighty before, and fifty—­one hundred and thirty.  Write that you owe me that sum, on a piece of paper.  I can’t see why you should wish to appear so uncommonly virtuous.”

Algernon scribbled the written acknowledgment, which he despised himself for giving, and the receiver for taking, but was always ready to give for the money, and said, as he put the cheque in his purse:  “It was this infernal fellow completely upset me.  If you were worried by a bull-dog, by Jove, Ned, you’d lose your coolness.  He bothered my head off.  Ask me now, and I’ll do anything on earth for you.  My back’s broad.  Sir Billy can’t think worse of me than he does.  Do you want to break positively with that pretty rival to Peggy L.?  I’ve got a scheme to relieve you, my poor old Ned, and make everybody happy.  I’ll lay the foundations of a fresh and brilliant reputation for myself.”