“I had had sickness and misfortunes, and was so poor,” said the old man, “as hopelessly to owe the father, principal and interest. The son inheriting, was so merciful as to forgive me both, and place me here.”
He made a little gesture as though he kissed the hem of an imaginary garment worn by the noble youth before him. It was humbly done, but picturesquely, and was not abasing to the doer.
“You won’t say more, I see,” said Fledgeby, looking at him as if he would like to try the effect of extracting a double-tooth or two, “and so it’s of no use my putting it to you. But confess this, Riah; who believes you to be poor now?”
“No one,” said the old man.
“There you’re right,” assented Fledgeby.
“No one,” repeated the old man with a grave slow wave of his head. “All scout it as a fable. Were I to say ‘This little fancy business is not mine’ ”; with a lithe sweep of his easily-turning hand around him, to comprehend the various objects on the shelves; “ ‘it is the little business of a Christian young gentleman who places me, his servant, in trust and charge here, and to whom I am accountable for every single bead,’ they would laugh. When, in the larger money-business, I tell the borrowers—”
“I say, old chap!” interposed Fledgeby, “I hope you mind what you do tell ’em?”
“Sir, I tell them no more than I am about to repeat. When I tell them, ‘I cannot promise this, I cannot answer for the other, I must see my principal, I have not the money, I am a poor man and it does not rest with me,’ they are so unbelieving and so impatient, that they sometimes curse me in Jehovah’s name.”
“That’s deuced good, that is!” said Fascination Fledgeby.