It was a strange sight when the rolls of bank-notes were produced, to see the actual partition of the Bank of England’s promises to pay, the vulture beaks bending over the crisp paper, the wary inspection of water-mark and number and signature, and the stuffing of pocket-books and cramming of purses and stowing away of what seemed to be regarded rather as plunder than as lawful gains. Two odd things during this transaction were to be noticed—first, that Mr Braham, who was incomparably the shabbiest Jew present, met with deference on every hand save from irreverent Wilkins; and secondly, that all the Jews seemed to take up their money grudgingly, like hounds that have chopped their fox in covert.
‘Well done, Shir Shykesh!’ exclaimed the heavy Hebrew with the green gabardine and the blue bag. ‘If they wash all of hish short, there might be the moneysh, but there wouldn’t be the fun!’
‘We’ll drink Sir Sykes’ health, at anyrate,’ briskly put in Mr Wilkins.—‘Sims!’ and he tinkled the office hand-bell as he spoke, ‘glasses and cork-screw.’
It was good amber-hued sherry, none of your modern abominations, but a real Spanish vintage, long mellowed in its dusty bin, that gurgled into the glasses under the careful handling of Mr Wilkins. The Hebrews sipped, appraised—where could be found judges so critical!—and drank.
‘I’m shorry for the poor young man,’ said Mr Braham, in a sort of outburst of sentiment, at mention of Captain Denzil’s name.
‘So that he gets his victuals,’ remarked the Jew attorney curtly, ‘I don’t see why he’s to be pitied.’
‘It ish a shelling out!’ was the mild rejoinder of the stout Israelite with the blue bag, who seemed to be by far the softest-hearted of the company. ‘Of courshe, when I thought he would do me, I didn’t care; but now I remember he didn’t get much, not above sheven-fifty cash. All the resht wash pictures, wine—not like yoursh, Wilkinsh—cigars, and opera-tickets.’
‘He went through the mill, I suppose,’ said Mr Moss, ‘as others have done before him, and others will do after him; eh, Uncle Jacob?’
‘Eh, eh, grisht to the mill!’ chuckled the stout proprietor of the empty blue bag; and the quartette of confederates soon separated.
Mr Wilkins, left alone, purred contentedly as he poured out and tossed off another glass of the sherry so deservedly lauded, and then, rising from his chair, took down a Baronetage, bound in pink and gold, and fluttered over the leaves until his finger rested on the words: ‘Denzil, Sir Sykes; of Carbery Chase, county Devon; of Threepham Lodge, Yorkshire; Ermine Moat, Durham; and Malpas Wold, Cheshire, succeeded his father, Sir Harbottle Denzil, August 18—; married, May 18—; formerly in the army, and attained the rank of Major. Is a magistrate and deputy-lieutenant for Devonshire. Unsuccessfully contested the county at the election of 18—.’