He did not much care about this occupation; he was not so successful.
He had to stand all day at Tower-hill, or by the docks, and waylay the seafaring men as they passed by.
They were hard customers to deal with—they were not to be talked over; were too wide awake, and were not particular in their expressions.
In addition to this, he was forestalled by a number of Jew dealers, who dealt in articles of that description.
At the end of the week he returned disheartened, and told his mistress he couldn’t get on at all to his satisfaction.
The sailor gentleman, he said, would always insist on trying his telescopes before they would make the least bid for them, and when they did bid they showed themselves much more at home in the matter than he was. They beat him, for even when they were drunk they seemed to understand them just as well.
“I suppose,” cried his mistress, “that they were accustomed to look through telescopes when they were drunk aboard ship. No wonder so many vessels are lost. I haven’t patience to think of such persons; but how about the opera glasses, Alf?”
“Oh, they’re no good at all; nobody would even look at them. When I offered them they said, ‘Get out. What do we want with opera glasses, you little fool? Better wait till we get opera boxes.’”
“Well, we must start you in another line,” said his mistress. “Don’t be disheartened. You can’t always be successful.”
Alf was a little despondent when he retired to rest. He found himself in such comfortable quarters, and was so well cared for, that he dreaded lest his non-success should cause him to be turned adrift.