That's understood."
"Look here, Ned," Farrell interrupted. "It's done me good to shake
you by the hand and see you so flourishing. But I've looked you up
because--well, because I'm in a tight place, and I wonder if you
could anyways help."
"Eh?" Renton pulled up and looked at him shrewdly. "What's wrong?
Nothing to do with the old firm, now, surely? . . . I get the London
_Times_ sent over, and your last Shareholders' Meeting was a perfect
Hallelujah Chorus. Why, you're quoted--"
Now you'll know Farrell, by this time, for a man of his class--and a
pretty good class it is, in England, when all's said and done; for a
man of the sort that resents a suspicion on his business about as
quickly as he'd resent one on his private and domestic honour--
perhaps even a trifle more smartly. His business, in short, _is_ the
first home and hearth of his honour. So Farrell cut in, very quick
and hot,--
"If my business were only twice as solid as yours, Ned Renton, I
might be worrying you about it. . . . There, don't take me amiss!
. . . I've come to trouble you about myself.
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