“Why?”
“Because the world is against both him and his race, and yet in all the years I have known him, nothing has ever soured his temper.”
Jack struck a match, relit his cigar and settling himself more comfortably in his chair, said in a positive tone:
“Sour or sweet,—I don't like Jews,—never did.”
“You don't like him because you don't know him. That's your fault, not his. But you would like him, let me tell you, if you could hear him talk. And now I think of it, I am determined you shall know him, and right away. Not that he cares—Cohen's friends are among the best men in London, especially the better grade of theatrical people, whose clothes he has made and whose purses he has kept full—yes—and whom he sometimes had to bury to keep them out of Potter's field; and those he knows here—his kind of people, I mean, not yours.”
“All in his line of business, Uncle Peter,” Jack laughed. “How much interest did they pay,—cent per cent?”
“I am ashamed of you, Jack. Not a penny. Don't let your mind get clogged up, my boy, with such prejudices,—keep the slate of your judgment sponged clean.”
“But you believe everybody is clean, Uncle Peter.”
“And so must you, until you prove them dirty. Now, will you do me a very great kindness and yourself one as well? Please go downstairs, rap three times at Mr. Cohen's shutters—hard, so that he can hear you—that's my signal—present my compliments and ask him to be kind enough to come up and have a cigar with us.”
Jack leaned forward in his seat, his face showing his astonishment.