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. “No,” said the pawnbroker, shutting his lips illustratively. “Suppose,” said the sailor, leaning forward intently—“suppose a man came to you an’ ses— there’s that confounded assistant of yours peeping through the door.” The pawnbroker got up almost as exasperated as the seaman, and, after rating his assistant through the half-open door, closed it with a bang, and pulled down a small blind over the glass. “Suppose a man came to you,” resumed the sailor, after the pawnbroker had seated himself again, “and asked you for five hundred pounds for something. Have you got it?” “Not here,” said the pawnbroker suspiciously. “I don’t keep any money on the premises.” “You could get it, though?” suggested the other. “We’ll see,” said the pawnbroker; “five hundred pounds is a fortune—five hundred pounds, why it takes years of work—five hundred pounds—” “I don’t want no blessed psalms,” said the seaman abruptly; “but, look here, suppose I wanted five hundred pounds for something, and you wouldn’t give it. How am I to know you wouldn’t give information to the police if I didn’t take what you offered me for it?” The pawnbroker threw up his huge palms in virtuous horror. “I’d mark you for it if you did,” said the seaman menacingly, through his teeth. “It ’ud be the worst day’s work you ever did. Will you take it or leave it at my price, an’ if you won’t give it, leave me to go as I came?” “I will,” said the pawnbroker solemnly.