"Here's your money," cried Manasseh with passionate contempt, and sent two golden coins spinning musically upon the slab. In the crowd sensation, in Grobstock's breast astonishment, indignation, and bitterness. He was struck momentarily dumb. His face purpled. The scales of the salmon shone like a celestial vision that was fading from him by his own stupidity. "I'll take that salmon, Jonathan," he repeated, spluttering. "Three guineas." "Pardon me," repeated Manasseh, "it is too late. This is not an auction." He seized the fish by the tail. Grobstock turned upon him, goaded to the point of apoplexy. "You!" he cried. "You--you--rogue! How dare you buy salmon!" [Illustration: "'YOU ROGUE! HOW DARE YOU BUY SALMON!'"] "Rogue yourself!" retorted Manasseh. "Would you have me steal salmon?" "You have stolen my money, knave, rascal!" "Murderer! Shedder of blood! Did you not give me the money as a free-will offering, for the good of your wife's soul? I call on you before all these witnesses to confess yourself a slanderer!" "Slanderer, indeed! I repeat, you are a knave and a jackanapes. You--a pauper--a beggar--with a wife and children. How can you have the face to go and spend two guineas--two whole guineas--all you have in the world--on a mere luxury like salmon?" Manasseh elevated his arched eyebrows. "If I do not buy salmon when I have two guineas," he answered quietly, "when shall I buy salmon? As you say, it is a luxury; very dear. It is only on rare occasions like this that my means run to it." There was a dignified pathos about the rebuke that mollified the magnate. He felt that there was reason in the beggar's point of view--though it was a point to which he would never himself have risen, unaided. But righteous anger still simmered in him; he felt vaguely that there was something to be said in reply, though he also felt that even if he knew what it was, it would have to be said in a lower key to correspond with Manasseh's transition from the high pitch of the opening passages. Not finding the requisite repartee he was silent. "In the name of my wife," went on Manasseh, swinging the salmon by the tail, "I ask you to clear my good name which you have bespattered in the presence of my very tradesmen. Again I call upon you to confess before these witnesses that you gave me the money yourself in charity. Come! Do you deny it?" "No, I don't deny it," murmured Grobstock, unable to understand why he appeared to himself like a whipped cur, or how what should have been a boast had been transformed into an apology to a beggar. "In the name of my wife, I thank you," said Manasseh. "She loves salmon, and fries with unction. And now, since you have no further use for that bag of yours, I will relieve you of its burden by taking my salmon home in it." He took the canvas bag from the limp grasp of the astonished Tedesco, and dropped the fish in. The head protruded, surveying the scene with a cold, glassy, ironical eye.