“Get off,” said the pawnbroker to the assistant, who was quietly and unobtrusively making a third.
“Mind the shop. This gentleman and I have business in the parlor. Come this way, sir.”
He raised the flap of the counter, and led the way to a small, untidy room at the back of the shop. A copper kettle was boiling on the fire, and the table was already laid for tea. The pawnbroker, motioning his visitor to a dingy leather armchair, went to a cupboard and produced a bottle of rum, three parts full, and a couple of glasses.
“Tea for me,” said the seaman, eyeing the bottle wistfully.
The pawnbroker pricked up his ears. “Nonsense,” he said, with an attempt at heartiness, “a jolly fellow like you don’t want tea. Have some o’ this.”
“Tea, confound yer!” said the other. “When I say tea, I mean tea.”
The pawnbroker, repressing his choler, replaced the bottle, and, seating himself at the table, reached over for the kettle, and made the tea. It was really a pleasing picture of domestic life, and would have looked well in a lantern slide at a temperance lecture, the long, gaunt Jew and the burly seaman hobnobbing over the blameless teapot. But Mr. Hyams grew restless. He was intent upon business; but the other, so far as his inroads on the teapot and the eatables gave any indication, seemed to be bent only upon pleasure. Once again the picture of the former sailor rose before Mr. Hyams’ eyes, and he scowled fiercely as the seaman pushed his cup up for the fourth time.
“And now for a smoke,” said his visitor, as he settled back in his chair. “A good ’un, mind. Lord, this is comfort! It’s the first bit o’ comfort I’ve ’ad since I come ashore five days ago.”
The pawnbroker grunted, and producing a couple of black, greasy-looking cigars, gave one to his guest. They both fell to smoking, the former ill at ease, the latter with his feet spread out on the small fender, making the very utmost of his bit of comfort.
“Are you a man as is fond of asking questions?” he said at length.