‘Yesterday was my first day in London,’ said the old man, glancing at his travel-stained dress and worn shoes.
‘It would have been better for you, I think, if it had been your last also,’ replied Ralph.
‘I have been seeking you these two days, where I thought you were most likely to be found,’ resumed the other more humbly, ‘and I met you here at last, when I had almost given up the hope of encountering you, Mr Nickleby.’
He seemed to wait for some reply, but Ralph giving him none, he continued:
‘I am a most miserable and wretched outcast, nearly sixty years old, and as destitute and helpless as a child of six.’
‘I am sixty years old, too,’ replied Ralph, ‘and am neither destitute nor helpless. Work. Don’t make fine play-acting speeches about bread, but earn it.’
‘How?’ cried the other. ‘Where? Show me the means. Will you give them to me—will you?’
‘I did once,’ replied Ralph, composedly; ‘you scarcely need ask me whether I will again.’
‘It’s twenty years ago, or more,’ said the man, in a suppressed voice, ‘since you and I fell out. You remember that? I claimed a share in the profits of some business I brought to you, and, as I persisted, you arrested me for an old advance of ten pounds, odd shillings, including interest at fifty per cent, or so.’
‘I remember something of it,’ replied Ralph, carelessly. ‘What then?’