"Had you not better take the salmon home to your wife first?" said he.
"My duty is to enable you to complete your good deed at once. My wife is unaware of the salmon. She is in no suspense."
Even as the Schnorrer spake it flashed upon Grobstock that Manasseh was more presentable with the salmon than without it—in fact, that the salmon was the salvation of the situation. When Grobstock bought fish he often hired a man to carry home the spoil. Manasseh would have all the air of such a loafer. Who would suspect that the fish and even the bag belonged to the porter, though purchased with the gentleman's money? Grobstock silently thanked Providence for the ingenious way in which it had contrived to save his self-respect. As a mere fish-carrier Manasseh would attract no second glance from the household; once safely in, it would be comparatively easy to smuggle him out, and when he did come on Friday night it would be in the metamorphosing glories of a body-coat, with his unspeakable undergarment turned into a shirt and his turban knocked into a cocked hat.
They emerged into Aldgate, and then turned down Leman Street, a fashionable quarter, and so into Great Prescott Street. At the critical street corner Grobstock's composure began to desert him: he took out his handsomely ornamented snuff-box and administered to himself a mighty pinch. It did him good, and he walked on and was well nigh arrived at his own door when Manasseh suddenly caught him by a coat button.
"ADMINISTERED A MIGHTY PINCH."
"Stand still a second," he cried imperatively.
"What is it?" murmured Grobstock, in alarm.
"You have spilt snuff all down your coat front," Manasseh replied severely. "Hold the bag a moment while I brush it off."
Joseph obeyed, and Manasseh scrupulously removed every particle with such patience that Grobstock's was exhausted.