“Eh? Vat? A decline you call it? Me? Do I look like it?”
The fat little man stood upright, and patted his rotund person.
“It’s the wear and tear of mind that I fear will be fatal to you. You have brain-tire written large over every feature. I think you ought to see a doctor and get a nerve tonic. This fear of dying a pauper is rapidly killing you, and who then will fill your shoes?”
“My poy, there is one thing certain—you won’t. I got too much sense. I know a smart feller when I see him, and you’re altogetter too slow to please me.”
“The really energetic man is the one who works with his brains, and leaves others to work with their hands.”
“Oh! that’s it, eh? Qvite a young Solomon! Vell, I do both.”
“And you lose money in consequence.”
“I losing money?”
“Yes, you. You’re dropping behind fast. Crookenden and Co. are outstripping you in every line.”
“Perhaps you see my books. Perhaps you see theirs.”