"Tere's tat young shentleman mit his olt man again. Fader Abraham! he ish von shentleman; von drue shentleman!"
"A 'true gentleman,' I believe you, Isaacs. Why, don't you know who he is? He is that German prince they've been making such a fuss over, in the States. I saw his name in the list of passengers. Prince—Prince Edward of—of Hesse—Hesse something or other, I forget. They are all Hesses or Saxes up there," said his interlocutor.
"No, no," objected the Jew. "Dish ish nod he. I know Brince Etwart ven I see him. He ish von brince, but nod von shentleman. He svears ad hish mens."
The near approach of the subject of this conversation prevented farther personal remarks. But when Ishmael had seen his old follower comfortably in bed, the Jew turned to him and, as it would seem, for the simple pleasure of speaking to the young man whom he admired so much, said:
"Zir; te zhip rollts mush. Tere vill pe a gread pig storm."
"I think so," answered Ishmael courteously.
"Vell, if zhe goesh down do te boddom tere vill pe von lesh drue shentleman in de vorlt, zir. Ant tat vill be you."
"Thank you," said Ishmael, smiling.
"Ant tere vill pe von lesh Sherman Shew in te vorlt. Ant tat vill pe me."
"Oh, I hope there is no danger of such a calamity. Good-night!" said
Ishmael, smiling upon his admirer and withdrawing from the cabin.