He waved it from him with a long, lean hand.

“I can not do it,” he said; “and, for God’s sake, don’t ask me to!”

I argued with him for twenty minutes; I laid the question before him in a million lights; I racked him with a picture of Eleanor, so deeply hurt, so mortified, that in her recklessness and despair she would probably throw herself away on the first man that offered!  This was his chance, I told him; the one chance of his life; he was letting a piece of idiotic pride wreck the probable happiness of years.  He agreed with me with moans and weeps.  He had the candor of a child and the torrential sentiment of a German musician.  Three hundred and four dollars and seventy-five cents stood between him and eternal bliss, and yet he waved my pocketbook from him!  And all the while I saw myself losing Freddy.

I went away with his “No, no, no!” still ringing in my ears.

At the club I found a note from Freddy.  She pressed me to lose no time.  Mrs. Matthewman was talking of going to Europe, and of course she and Eleanor would have to accompany her.  Eleanor, she said, had ordered two new gowns and had brightened up wonderfully.  “Only yesterday she told me she wished that silly doctor would hurry up and come—­and that, you know, from Eleanor is almost a declaration!”

Some of my best friends happened to be in the club.  It occurred to me that poor Nevill was diabetic, and that Charley Crossman had been boring everybody about his gout.  I buttonholed them both, and laid my unfortunate predicament before them.  I said I’d pay all the expenses.  In fact, the more they could make it cost the better I’d be pleased.

“What,” roared Nevill, “put myself in the hands of a young fool so that he may fill his empty pockets with your money!  Where do I come in?  Good heavens, Westoby, you’re crazy!  Think what would happen to me if it came to Doctor Saltworthy’s ears?  He’d never have anything more to do with me!”

Charley Crossman was equally rebellious and unreasonable.

“I guess you’ve never had the gout,” he said grimly.

“But Charley, old man,” I pleaded, “all that you’d have to do would be to let him talk to you.  I don’t ask you to suffer for it.  Just pay—­that’s all—­pay my money!”

“I’m awfully easily talked into things,” said Charley. (There was never such a mule on the Produce Exchange.) “He’d be saying, ’Take this’—­and I’m the kind of blankety-blank fool that would take it!”

Then I did a mean thing.  I reminded Crossman of having backed some bills of his—­big bills, too—­at a time when it was touch and go whether he’d manage to keep his head above water.

“Westoby,” he replied, “don’t think that time has lessened my sense of that obligation.  I’d cut off my right hand to do you a good turn.  But for heaven’s sake, don’t ask me to monkey with my gout!”

The best I could get out of him was the promise of an anemic servant-girl.  Nevill generously threw in a groom with varicose veins.  Small contributions, but thankfully received.