“Thanks!” said Herbert. “I know not, Mr Jessuron, how I shall ever repay you for your hospitality. I must not tax it any longer, however. I see, by the sun, it is time I should be making for the Bay.”
As Herbert spoke, he was rising to take his departure.
“Shtop, shtop!” cried his host, pushing him back into his chair; “not to-night, Mashter Vochan, not thish night. I can’t promish you ash fine a bed as yoush might get at Mount Welcome, but I think I can give you a better ash you shleep in lash night—ha, ha! You musht stay with ush thish night; and Shoodith will make you some music. Don’t shay a word; I takesh no refushal.”
The offer was a tempting one; and, after some further pressure, Herbert acquiesced in it. He was partly influenced to stay where he was, by the poor prospect of a lodging which the Bay afforded him; and, perhaps, a little from a desire to hear the promised music.
The conversation was continued, by his host putting some further interrogatories:—How did Herbert intend to employ himself in the Bay? What prospect had he of employment; and in what line?
“I fear not much in any line,” replied the young man, answering both questions in one, and in a tone of sarcastic despondence.
“Hash you no profeshion?”
“Alas, no!” replied Herbert. “It was intended by my father I should have one; but he died before my education was completed; and my college—as is too often the case—has taught me little more than a knowledge of dead languages.”
“No ushe—no ushe whatever,” rejoined the intelligent Israelite.
“I can draw a landscape,” pursued the young man, modestly, “or paint a portrait tolerably well, I believe—my father himself taught me these accomplishments.”