Mr Harris, senior partner in the firm of Harris & Son, provision dealers, Mount Street, S.E., was in a state of much tribulation. For Mr Harris, owing to an unfortunate propensity for backing horses which either came in last, or fell down and broke their legs, or behaved in some other unsatisfactory fashion, had, as the phrase is, outrun the constable, and on the day that witnessed his visit to Dr Taplow's surgery, had found himself threatened with bankruptcy and ruin.
That evening--there being no other course to pursue--he had made a clean breast of his affairs to his son Isaac, a weedy, lynx-eyed youth of a greasy and unwashed appearance.
"So dat is the case, my son," concluded Mr Harris, throwing out his hands in a gesture of despair; "and now--vot are ve to do--vot are ve to do?"
Mr Harris and his heir, it may be added, were East End Jews of a pronounced type, and their speech suggested a certain German strain in their ancestry.
"It is very sad, mine fader," replied young Harris; "it vos foolish of you to bet on dose 'orses----."
"It vos foolish of dose 'orses not to run faster!" cried Mr Harris, proceeding to cut his nails with the counter scissors.
"Don't take the edge off dose scissors, mine fader," said young Harris, snatching them away from his parent.
"And vy not? Dey are my scissors!" exclaimed Mr Harris, endeavouring to grab them back.
"Ven I haf bought dem dey vill not be yours," explained young Harris, amiably turning the point of the scissors towards his sire, so that, should the latter persist in his endeavour to regain them, he might receive some hurt from the effort.
The old dealer gazed wonderingly at his fond child. "You--you vill buy dose scissors? Ah! at the sale?"