“Everything to suit a gallant page, everything. Except three wares with which the great merchant—Nature—must provide him, or else he’ll make but a sorry page.”
“And those wares—how do you style them?” asked the page.
“The first,” replied the Jew with a demure look, “the first ware is somewhat dull and heavy, it is labelled—Impudence—may it please thee fair Page.”
“Thou heathen hound, thou!” exclaimed Guiseppo, half amused and half angered. “How name you the second ware? Eh! Leatherface?”
“The second ware,” the Jew replied meekly, “the second ware is light and feathery. It bears the name—Self-conceit. As for the third—”
“Aye the third,” interrupted the page. “Go on my black bearded friend—go on—I’ll borrow a good oaken towel to rub you down, when you have done.”
“As for the third, it is the stuff of which the two others are made. It is heavier and duller than Impudence, and lighter and more feathery than Self-conceit, they style it Ignorance. And these three wares are the sole contents of the cob-web-hung storehouse of Sir Page’s brain. An’ it likes thee, fair sir?”
The Israelite bowed low as he spoke.
“Ha—ha—ha! fairly hit! Ho—ho—ho! The Jew turns Scholar, and preaches like a monk.—He—he—he! The trim Page is hit—fairly hit.” Such were the exclamations that went around the laughing crowd.
“Now receive thy pay, thou son of Sathanas!” exclaimed Guiseppo, brandishing an oaken staff; “here’s at thee!”