“Do you think you have me in your hands?”
“I don’t think,” replied the cunning goldsmith. “I know I’ve got you. But I’ll be magnanimous—I’ll take £150. No, £160—I must pay the boatmen—and then I’ll say no more about the affair. It shall be buried in the oblivion of my breast, it shall be forgotten with the sins of my youth. I must ask you to be quick.”
“Quick?”
“Yes, as quick as you conveniently can.”
“Would you order me about, sir?”
“Not exactly that, but I would urge you on a little faster. I would persuade you with the inevitable spur of fate.”
The merchant put his hand on a bell which stood upon his table.
“That would be of no use,” said Benjamin. “If you call fifty clerks and forcibly rob me of my correspondence, you gain nothing. Listen! Every clerk in this building would turn against you the moment he knew your true character; and before morning, every man, woman and child in Timber Town would know. And where would you be then? In gaol. D’you hear?—in gaol. Take up your pen. An insignificant difference of a paltry hundred pounds will solve the difficulty and give you all the comfort of a quiet mind.”
“But what guarantee have I that after you have been paid you won’t continue to blackmail me?”
“You cannot possibly have such a guarantee—it wouldn’t be good for you. This business is going to chasten your soul, and make you mend your ways. It comes as a blessing in disguise. But so long as you don’t refer to the matter, after you have paid me what you owe me, I shall bury the hatchet. I simply give you my word for that. If you don’t care to take it, leave it: it makes no difference to me.”