“Very good, except philanthropy, which is all humbug, you know, Quagga,” observed the broker, “a bad spec—a dead loss.—We must look after him”—and the face of the master seemed to glance more pleasantly upon his servant.—“Well, what provincial news?” he asked, after a pause.
“‘We regret to inform our readers, that the respectable banking house of Mangel Wurzel, Carrots, and Co., at Lattakoo, have stopped payment.’”
“Stopped payment, you rascal!” shouted the broker, his face becoming purple with rage. “How dare you tell me Mangel Wurzel and Co. have stopped payment? It’s all a conspiracy—a base invention—a lie—a cheat! You know I’ve got all the payments made to me per the Springbok—on account of that fine gang of Hottentots—in their wretched paper. I’ll have you hanged, you scoundrel, for deceiving me. I’ll——”
Here the torrent of his indignation was interrupted by one of the young slaves from the counting-house showing himself at the door.
“Well, you imp of darkness! what do you want?” he cried.
“Cap’ain Gumpas, sar, want to peak wi’ you,” said the young Hottentot.
“Who, scoundrel?”
“Cap’ain Gumpass, sar, ship Albatross.”
“Admit him, instantly.”
The slave disappeared, and so did the broker’s passion.