"What interest?"
"Five per cent per annum."
Mr. Metaxa laughed. "Per annum!" he said. "Five per cent a month."
"A month! That would be sixty per cent a year."
"Precisely."
"But that is monstrous."
"I don't ask gentlemen to come to me. They come of their own free will.
Those are my terms, and they can take it or leave it."
"Then I shall leave it." The Admiral rose angrily from his chair.
"But one moment, sir. Just sit down and we shall chat the matter over.
Yours is a rather unusual case and we may find some other way of doing
what you wish. Of course the security which you offer is no security at
all, and no sane man would advance five thousand pennies on it."
"No security? Why not, sir?"
"You might die to-morrow. You are not a young man. What age are you?"
"Sixty-three."
Mr. Metaxa turned over a long column of figures. "Here is an actuary's
table," said he. "At your time of life the average expectancy of life is
only a few years even in a well-preserved man."
"Do you mean to insinuate that I am not a well-preserved man?"
"Well, Admiral, it is a trying life at sea. Sailors in their younger
days are gay dogs, and take it out of themselves. Then when they grow
older they are still hard at it, and have no chance of rest or peace. I
do not think a sailor's life a good one."
"I'll tell you what, sir," said the Admiral hotly. "If you have two
pairs of gloves I'll undertake to knock you out under three rounds. Or
I'll race you from here to St. Paul's, and my friend here will see fair.
I'll let you see whether I am an old man or not."
"This is beside the question," said the moneylender with a deprecatory
shrug. "The point is that if you died to-morrow where would be the
security then?"
"I could insure my life, and make the policy over to you."
"Your premiums for such a sum, if any office would have you, which I
very much doubt, would come to close on five hundred a year. That would
hardly suit your book."
"Well, sir, what do you intend to propose?" asked the Admiral.
"I might, to accommodate you, work it in another way. I should send for
a medical man, and have an opinion upon your life. Then I might see what
could be done."
"That is quite fair. I have no objection to that."
"There is a very clever doctor in the street here. Proudie is his name.
John, go and fetch Doctor Proudie." The youth was dispatched upon
his errand, while Mr. Metaxa sat at his desk, trimming his nails, and
shooting out little comments upon the weather. Presently feet were
heard upon the stairs, the moneylender hurried out, there was a sound of
whispering, and he returned with a large, fat, greasy-looking man, clad
in a much worn frock-coat, and a very dilapidated top hat.