“A shilling, a shilling, a shilling, and no more!” cried the Jew; and taking out a shilling from the till under the counter, he threw it across to the poor old creature, who clutched it in her skinny claws, and then put it into some receptacle under a thin and ragged, but clean gown, which draggled around her emaciated form. “Wait outside till I come out,” whispered Wilfred to the old woman, who, receiving her pawn-ticket, left the shop. “And now, young gentleman, what can I do for you?” asked Mr. Cohen, with a sly leer. “I want to know what you’ll give me for these clothes and this leather bag,” answered Wilfred, as he laid them on the counter. The Jew spread out and examined the things one by one, and then named a sum which appeared to the owner preposterously small. “They must be worth much more than that,” said he. The Jew seemed to examine the things more narrowly than before, and then he said, “Well, we’ll see what can be done; but as we always like to do things right and above board, I’d like to know your name first.” Wilfred thought this a singular request, but he reflected that it might be the rule of the establishment. But what name should he give? His father had commanded him to change his surname--that he would do--it was his father’s name, and in that respect he would obey his father’s command, however unjust. But his Christian name was his own; no one had any right to deprive him of _that_; and so, after a pause, during which the Jew was narrowly scrutinising his face, he answered, “Wilfred Smith.” “And the linen’s all marked ‘W.M.,’ and ‘W.M.’ ’s engraved in a mollorgrum on the lock of the bag--he, he! I thought so,” cried the little Jew, triumphantly. “But I say, mister, I think yer ought to be dev’lish glad to get what I offered, and have no questions asked. Don’t yer know I might get yer into a peck of troubles along of them fash’nable articles?” “Why, what do you take me to be?” cried Wilfred, turning very red. “May be a walley,” answered the Jew. “What’s that?” asked Wilfred. “What’s that? Why, a walley-de-sham, stoopid,” responded Mr. Cohen, severely; “a genelman’s servant as has left his place without giving a month’s warning--that’s what I mean.” “You don’t mean to say,” said Wilfred, “that you think I stole those things, do you?” “Stole ’em! no,” responded the Jew, grinning from ear to ear, “we never uses bad language in this respectable establishment; we might get prosecuted for libel if we said as a genelman _stole_ things, that we might; but if yer want to know what I _think_, why, I think yer _took_ ’em, just as a parquisite, you know, and I dessay your master is at this moment breaking his heart over the loss. Now, what do yer say? will yer take what I offered, or shall I keep these things here till the perlice come to take yer to the station? Uncle Abraham, are yer in?”