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Updated: June 14, 2025
No use asking him for a loan; he would be putting all sorts of awkward questions," thought Verschoyle, with the uneasy consciousness that he would find it difficult to explain without incriminating himself. "No, I won't try it! It must be the other way there's no help for it now. Once out of this hole, I'll put my shoulder to the wheel, and pay him back with the first money I earn.
Once in his own room, Verschoyle sank into a seat and buried his face in his hands. "If there were but any other way than this! If only the man had not gone there bragging about his thousands!" trying to persuade himself that there had been bragging, and almost hating Meredith for the wrong he was about to do him. "He would not do it!
It had come to this: the sister was working for both; and Verschoyle did not even see what his allowing her to do so meant! "What kind of pride was this?" thought Meredith, his tone showing, perhaps, a little of what was in his mind, as he gravely replied: "I can quite understand your objecting to that. You must let your friends use what interests they have to get you into something, Verschoyle."
"Our very own, who watches over the fortunes of the house," said his sister. "At least, that is the tradition. When last heard of, he was wandering about, with his hand uplifted as if in warning. Not very original, is it? And not of much use, unless he will tell us what we are being warned against." "Have you seen him, Miss Verschoyle?" "Oh, no. Even he seems to have deserted us now."
The heat, the hum of the great city, as it might have been the hum of a camped army, the creaking of the belts, and the well-known faces bent above them, brought back to me the memory of another evening, years ago, when Verschoyle and I waited for news of guns missing in no sham fight. "A regular Sanna's Post, isn't it?" I said at last.
Perhaps he would nave resigned, if old Mynderse Verschoyle had not died at eight o'clock on the morning of the day when Banneker was the earliest man to report at the office. A picturesque character, old Mynderse, who had lived for forty-five years with his childless wife in the ancient house on West 10th Street, and for the final fifteen years had not addressed so much as a word to her.
"I would rather not do that, Miss Verschoyle," he replied, rising to join them. "But won't you ? You would not find this claret so bad," said Laurence, adding, as the other declined: "Well, then, a cigar on the terrace, if we can dignify it by that name." "Not now, thank you. Later on, perhaps, if you will join me." "Then, I will look after your bag. At the station, didn't you say?
"Had I only guessed and kept my wits about me, instead of making a fool of myself, by going off in a fainting fit, the jest might have been better kept up." "I see you can make, as well as take, a jest, old fellow," he began, with an attempt at a laugh. "I was too sleepy and lazy to do more than take it, Verschoyle. I saw what was done both times; but the restoration was managed best."
He and I settled it together without much law. He is the possessor of the farm, and I have brought away a roll of notes; that's about all." "I suppose a small farm does not fetch much in these days," said Verschoyle. "This would have fetched more had I allowed them to bid one against the other; three or four instead of two thousand, I was told."
A barred window and a locked door ought to be enough. Good-night," telling himself they must talk over things in the morning. Too late to enter upon what he wanted to say, just then. In the morning Verschoyle should be made to see that here was a friend who was not to be put off; they must go into matters together.
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