“I fear very mush—No!” was the dry response.
“No,—is it?” cried Dalton, starting up from his seat; “did you say no?”
Kraus nodded twice, slowly and deliberately.
“Then bad luck to the rap ever you'll see more of my money,” cried Peter, passionately. “You old Jewish thief, I ought to have known you long ago; fifty, sixty, seventy per cent I was paying for the use of my own cash, and every bill I gave as good as the bank paper! Ain't you ashamed of yourself, tell me that,—ain't you downright ashamed of yourself?”
“I tink not; I have no occasions for shame,” said the other, calmly.
“Faix! I believe you there,” retorted Dalton. “Your line of life doesn't offer many opportunities of blushing. But if I can't bring you to know shame, maybe I can teach you to feel sorrow. Our dealing is ended from this day out. Peter Dalton does n't know you more! He never saw you! he never heard of your name! D'ye mind me now? None of your boasting among the English here that you have Mr. Dalton's business. If I hear of your saying it, it's not a contradiction will satisfy me. Understand me well—it's not to leave a mark of friendship that I 'll come in here again!”
The fierce tone in which Dalton said these words, and the gesture he made with a tremendous walking-stick, were certainly well calculated to excite Abel's terrors, who, opening a little movable pane of the window, looked out into the street, to assure himself of succor in case of need.
“What's the use of family, rank, or fortune,” cried Dalton, indignantly, as he paced up and down the little shop, in a perfect frenzy of passion, “if a little dirty Jew, with a face like a rat-terrier, can insult you? My uncle is one of the first men in Austria, and my daughter's a Princess; and there's a creature you would't touch with the tongs has the impudence to—to—to—” Evidently the precise offence did not at once occur to Dalton's memory, for after several efforts to round off his phrase—“to outrage me——to outrage me!” he cried, with the satisfaction of one who had found a missing object.
Meanwhile Abel, who had gradually resumed his courage, was busily engaged in some deep and intricate calculations, frequently referring to a number of ill-scrawled scraps of paper on a file before him, not heeding, if he heard, the storm around him.
“Dere, saar,” said he at length, as he pushed a slip of paper towards Dalton,—“dere, saar; our affairs is closed, as you say. Dere is your debit,—eighteen hundred and seventy-three florins, 'convenzion money.' Dere may be leetle charges to be added for commissions and oder tings; but dat is de chief sum, which you pay now.”