“I do, and I do not,” said the Jew, hesitatingly. “To one like myself, who knows them all, always on terms of close intimacy,—friendship, I may say,—it 's all very well; but take a new hand just launched into life, a fellow not of their own set,—why, sir, there 's no name for the insults and outrage he'll meet with.”
“But what could they do?” asked Scanlan, inquiringly.
“What?—anything, everything; laugh at him, live on him, win his last guinea,—and then, blackball him!”
“And could n't he get a crack at them?”
“A what?”
“Couldn't he have a shot at some of them, at least?” asked Maurice.
“No, no,” said Mr. Merl, half contemptuously; “they don't do that.”
“Faix! and we 'd do it down here,” said Scanlan, “devil may care who or what he was that tried the game.”
“But I 'm speaking of London and Paris; I 'm not alluding to the Sandwich Islands,” said Merl, on whose brain the port and the strong fire were already producing their effects.
Scanlan's face flushed angrily; but a glance at the other checked the reply he was about to make, and he merely pushed the decanter across the table.