“We’ve got a few articles to dispose of,” pursued Mr Bags, looking round the room cautiously. “They was left us,” he added in a low tone, “by a deceased friend.”
“Ah!” said the Jew, “never mind where you got ’em. Be quick—show them.”
Mrs Bags produced from under her cloak, first a tin tea-kettle, then a brass saucepan; and Mr Bags, unbuttoning his coat, laid on the table three knives and a silver fork. Esther, passing near the table at the time, glanced accidentally at the fork, and recognised the Flinders crest—a talbot, or old English bloodhound.
“Father,” said she hastily, in Spanish, “don’t have anything to do with that—it must be stolen.” But the Jew turned so sharply on her, telling her to mind her work, that she retreated.
The Jew took up the tea-kettle, and examined the bottom to see that it was sound—did the same with the saucepan—looked at the knives narrowly, and still closer at the fork—then ranged them before him on the table.
“For dis,” said he, laying his hand on the tea-kettle, “we will say one pound of rice; for dis (the saucepan) two pounds of corned beef; for de knives, a bottle of rum; and for de fork, six ounces of the best tea.”
“Curse your tea!” said Mr Bags.
“Yes!” said Mrs Bags, who had with difficulty restrained herself during the process of valuation, “we doesn’t want no tea. And the things is worth a much more than what you say: the saucepan’s as good as new, and the fork’s silver—”
“Plated,” said the Jew, weighing it across his finger.
“A many years,” said Mrs Bags, “have I lived in gentlemen’s families, and well do I know plate from silver. I’ve lived with Mrs Milson of Pidding Hill, where everything was silver, and nothing plated, even to the handles of the doors; and a dear good lady she was to me; many’s the gown she give me. And I’ve lived with—”