Mr Harris shook his head despondently.
"I ain't Mr 'Arris no longer," he said. "'E's Mr 'Arris. 'E's the boss. Ah, doctor," continued the old man, wiping away a tear with his shirt-sleeve, "if I'd a-known this vas goin' to 'appen--if I'd a-known that velp vos goin' to buy me up by bettin' on the 'orses I said vos no good, I----"
Mr Harris paused for breath. Jim waited for some interesting old Hebraic curse. But none came.
"--I'd never 'ave let 'im see my evenin' paper. That's vare 'e got it. I marked the 'orses I vos goin' to flutter on, and 'e saw 'em and laid accordin'!"
"Rather smart!" laughed Jim. "The firm got square with the bookies that way."
"And when I think," almost shrieked old Harris, "that 'e betted vith money out of the till--that he used my money to play me that trick vith--when I think of that----"
Again Mr Harris paused for breath, again Jim expected a rich and fruity paternal curse, and again none such came.
"When I think of that," resumed Mr Harris, "it goes to my 'eart to remember I vouldn't buy a cash-registering machine that vos offered to me at 'arf-price by a pawnbroker friend of mine 'oo vos giving up!"
"And why didn't you?" asked Jim.
"Vy? Vy, becos that velp yonder--young Isaac--says: 'Fader, do not buy that machine. If you do, the customers vill steal the sausages vile ve turn our backs to get the change.' That is vy. And I gave 'im a shillin' for bein' so clever. And it's a thousand pound to a little bit of cat's meat, doctor," concluded Mr Harris with great bitterness, "that 'e laid that bob on a 'orse that came 'ome!"