"Stuff! What's the use of his note of hand? Has he nothing else?" "No," said Mr Chynoweth. "He says you hold every thing he has." "Humph! Yes, suppose I do." "Without you'd consider half-a-dozen children good security?" "Chynoweth, I hate joking over business-matters." "Not joking," said Mr Chynoweth, stolidly. "That's what he said." "Rubbish! Can't he get some one else to lend his name?" "Said he had asked every one he could, and it was no use." "Confound the fellow! Tut-tut-tut! What's to be done, Chynoweth?" "Lend him the money." "No, no. There, I'll let him have fifty." "Not half enough. Better let him have it. You'll be ill, or I shall, one of these days, and if you don't let him have the money, he might give it us rather strongly." "Absurd. He dare not." "Well, I don't know," said Chynoweth. "When one's on one's back one is in the doctor's hands, you know." "There: let him have the money, but it must be at higher interest. But stop a moment," continued Mr Penwynn, as his managing man's pencil gave its first grate on the slate. "You're a great friend of Rumsey: why not lend him your name to the note?" Mr Chynoweth had no buttons to his trousers pockets, but he went through the process of buttoning them, and looked straight now at his employer. "How long would you keep me here if you found me weak enough to do such a thing as that, Mr Penwynn? No, no," he said, lowering his head once more, and looking through his eyebrows, "I never lend, and I never become security for any man. I shall put it down that he can have the money." Mr Penwynn nodded, and his manager wrote down on one side and marked off on the other. "Any thing else?" "Wheal Carnac's for sale." "Well, so it has been for a long time." "Yes, but they mean to sell now, I hear; and they say it would be worth any one's while to buy it." "Yes, so I suppose," said Mr Penwynn, smiling; "but we do not invest in mines, Chynoweth. We shall be happy to keep the account of the company, though, who start. How many have failed there?" "Three," said Chynoweth. "There has been a deal of money thrown down that place." Mr Penwynn nodded and entered his private room, when Chynoweth gave one ear a rub, stood his slate upon the desk, raised the flap and let it rest on his head, and then proceeded to finish his hand at whist, evidently with satisfactory results, for he smiled and rubbed his hands, placed the cards in a corner, and next proceeded to write two or three letters, one of which, concluded in affectionate terms, he afterwards tore up. Some hours passed, when a clerk brought in a card. "For Mr Penwynn, sir." "Geoffrey Trethick," said Mr Chynoweth, reading. "Take it in."