“You rascal, you’re trying to put me in a passion; you’re inventing that, because you know I’ve invested large sums in that affair. I’ll have you whipped like a slave if you don’t tell me the truth.”
“It is so here, sir,” said the man trembling, and turning pale.
“Then the Caffreton Universal Intelligence is a universal liar!” screamed the other in a rage. “Why, if it’s true, I’ve lost all I gained by the indigo and cochineal job. It’s a bad business, Mr. Quagga. There’s cheating in it! There’s ruination in it! I shall be laughed at on ‘Change. My solvency will be suspected—my credit diminish;—but go on, Mr. Quagga—go on, I’m perfectly cool—I’m not going to put myself out of temper by such a loss, don’t think it. In the name of poverty, why don’t you go on, Mr. Quagga?” thundered out the principal.
“Wer—wer—wer—wer—what shall I read next sir?” inquired his servant as plainly as his fright would allow.
“Read the arrivals, you stuttering, stupid blockhead,” cried the broker.
“Arrived in the bay, the Sultan from Cairo, Selim, master.”
“Nothing for me.”
“The Golden Horn, from Stamboul, Mahmoud, master:—twenty chests of opium, consigned by Mandragora and Poppy.”
“Send some one to see it warehoused in the docks.”