Hakkabut drew out a small piece of gold from his pocket, took it close under the lamp, rolled it over in his hand, and pressed it to his lips. “Shall you weigh me the coffee with my steelyard?” he asked, in a quavering voice that confirmed the professor’s suspicions.
“There is nothing else to weigh it with; you know that well enough, old Shechem,” said Ben Zoof. The steelyard was then produced; a tray was suspended to the hook, and upon this coffee was thrown until the needle registered the weight of one pound. Of course, it took seven pounds of coffee to do this.
“There you are! There’s your coffee, man!” Ben Zoof said.
“Are you sure?” inquired Hakkabut, peering down close to the dial. “Are you quite sure that the needle touches the point?”
“Yes; look and see.”
“Give it a little push, please.”
“Why?”
“Because—because—”
“Well, because of what?” cried the orderly, impatiently.
“Because I think, perhaps—I am not quite sure—perhaps the steelyard is not quite correct.”