"We're three on us--it's no use bolting," the man behind said.
"It's you, Moss, is it?" said the Colonel, who appeared to know his interlocutor. "How much is it?"
"Only a small thing," whispered Mr. Moss, of Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, and assistant officer to the Sheriff of Middlesex--"One hundred and sixty-six, six and eight-pence, at the suit of Mr. Nathan."
"Lend me a hundred, Wenham, for God's sake," poor Rawdon said--"I've got seventy at home."
"I've not got ten pounds in the world," said poor Mr. Wenham--"Good night, my dear fellow."
"Good night," said Rawdon ruefully. And Wenham walked away--and Rawdon Crawley finished his cigar as the cab drove under Temple Bar.
"There's three of us - it's no use bolting," the man behind said.
"It's you, Moss, is it?" said the Colonel, who appeared to know him. "How much is it?"
"Only a small thing," whispered Mr. Moss, assistant officer to the Sheriff of Middlesex. "One hundred and sixty-six pounds, six and eight-pence, owed to Mr. Nathan."
"Lend me a hundred, Wenham, for God's sake," poor Rawdon said. "I've got seventy at home."
"I've not got ten pounds in the world," said Mr. Wenham. "Good night, my dear fellow."
"Good night," said Rawdon ruefully. And Wenham walked away.