“Hakkabut,” said the captain, plunging without further preface into business, “we want some coffee, some tobacco, and other things. I have come to-day to order them, to settle the price, and to-morrow Ben Zoof shall fetch the goods away.” “Merciful, heavens!” the Jew began to whine; but Servadac cut him short. “None of that miserable howling! Business! I am come to buy your goods. I shall pay for them.” “Ah yes, your Excellency,” whispered the Jew, his voice trembling like a street beggar. “Don’t impose on me. I am poor; I am nearly ruined already.” “Cease your wretched whining!” cried Servadac. “I have told you once, I shall pay for all I buy.” “Ready money?” asked Hakkabut. “Yes, ready money. What makes you ask?” said the captain, curious to hear what the Jew would say. “Well, you see--you see, your Excellency,” stammered out the Jew, “to give credit to one wouldn’t do, unless I gave credit to another. You are solvent--I mean honorable, and his lordship the count is honorable; but maybe--maybe--” “Well?” said Servadac, waiting, but inclined to kick the old rascal out of his sight. “I shouldn’t like to give credit,” he repeated. “I have not asked you for credit. I have told you, you shall have ready money.” “Very good, your Excellency. But how will you pay me?” “Pay you? Why, we shall pay you in gold and silver and copper, while our money lasts, and when that is gone we shall pay you in bank notes.” “Oh, no paper, no paper!” groaned out the Jew, relapsing into his accustomed whine. “Nonsense, man!” cried Servadac. “No paper!” reiterated Hakkabut. “Why not? Surely you can trust the banks of England, France, and Russia.” “Ah no! I must have gold. Nothing so safe as gold.” “Well then,” said the captain, not wanting to lose his temper, “you shall have it your own way; we have plenty of gold for the present. We will leave the bank notes for by and by.” The Jew’s countenance brightened, and Servadac, repeating that he should come again the next day, was about to quit the vessel. “One moment, your Excellency,” said Hakkabut, sidling up with a hypocritical smile; “I suppose I am to fix my own prices.” “You will, of course, charge ordinary prices--proper market prices; European prices, I mean.” “Merciful heavens!” shrieked the old man, “you rob me of my rights; you defraud me of my privilege. The monopoly of the market belongs to me. It is the custom; it is my right; it is my privilege to fix my own prices.” Servadac made him understand that he had no intention of swerving from his decision. “Merciful heavens!” again howled the Jew, “it is sheer ruin. The time of monopoly is the time for profit; it is the time for speculation.”