“I'm poor,” said Eliakim; “almost as poor as you, because I'm too liberal to my customers.”
“Hear till him!” said Mrs. McCarty. “He says he's liberal and only offers fifty cints for these illigant breeches.”
“Will you take them or leave them?” demanded the pawnbroker, impatiently.
“You may give me the money,” said Bridget; “and it's I that wonder how you can slape in your bed, when you are so hard on poor folks.”
Mrs. McCarty departed with her money, and Eliakim fixed his sharp eyes on the next customer. It was a tall man, shabbily dressed, with a thin, melancholy-looking face, and the expression of one who had struggled with the world, and failed in the struggle.
“How much for this?” he asked, pointing to the violin, and speaking in a slow, deliberate tone, as if he did not feel at home in the language.
“What do you want for it?”
“Ten dollar,” he answered.
“Ten dollars! You're crazy!” was the contemptuous comment of the pawnbroker.
“He is a very good violin,” said the man. “If you would like to hear him,” and he made a movement as if to play upon it.