In the country--Jack's country, I
mean--miles from a store, you borrow your neighbor's, who promptly
borrows your saucepan in return. And it was so in larger matters:
the old Chippendale desk with its secret drawer was often the
bank--the only one, perhaps, in a week's journey. It is
astonishing in these days to think how many dingy, tattered or
torn bank-notes were fished out of these same receptacles and
handed over to a neighbor with the customary--"With the greatest
pleasure, my dear sir. When you can sell your corn or hogs, or
that mortgage is paid off, you can return it." A man who was able
to lend, and who still refused to lend, to a friend in his
adversity, was a pariah. He had committed the unpardonable sin.
And the last drop of the best Madeira went the same way and with
equal graciousness!
Peter, at Jack's knock, opened the door himself. Isaac Cohen had
just come in to show him a new book, and Peter supposed some one
from the shop below had sent upstairs for him.
"Oh! it's you, my boy!" Peter cried in his hearty way, his arms
around Jack's shoulders as he drew him inside the room.
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