“Generous Christian master,” urged the Jewish man, “it being holiday, I looked for no one.”
“Holiday he blowed!” said Fledgeby, entering. “What have you got to do with holidays? Shut the door.”
With his former action the old man obeyed. In the entry hung his rusty large-brimmed low-crowned hat, as long out of date as his coat; in the corner near it stood his staff—no walking-stick but a veritable staff. Fledgeby turned into the countinghouse, perched himself on a business stool, and cocked his hat. There were light boxes on shelves in the countinghouse, and strings of mock beads hanging up. There were samples of cheap clocks, and samples of cheap vases of flowers. Foreign toys, all.
Perched on the stool with his hat cocked on his head and one of his legs dangling, the youth of Fledgeby hardly