“Now, old ’un!” cried Fascination, in his light raillery, “what dodgery are you up to next, sitting there with your eyes shut? You ain’t asleep. Catch a weasel at it, and catch a Jew!”
“Truly, sir, I fear I nodded,” said the old man.
“Not you!” returned Fledgeby, with a cunning look. “A telling move with a good many, I dare say, but it won’t put me off my guard. Not a bad notion though, if you want to look indifferent in driving a bargain. Oh, you are a dodger!”
The old man shook his head, gently repudiating the imputation, and suppressed a sigh, and moved to the table at which Mr. Fledgeby was now pouring out for himself a cup of steaming and fragrant coffee from a pot that had stood ready on the hob. It was an edifying spectacle, the young man in his easy chair taking his coffee, and the old man with his grey head bent, standing awaiting his pleasure.
“Now!” said Fledgeby. “Fork out your balance in hand, and prove by figures how you make it out that it ain’t more. First of all, light that candle.”
Riah obeyed, and then taking a bag from his breast, and referring to the sum in the accounts for which they made him responsible, told it out upon the table. Fledgeby told it again with great care, and rang every sovereign.
“I suppose,” he said, taking one up to eye it closely, “you haven’t been lightening any of these; but it’s a trade of your people’s, you know. You understand what sweating a pound means, don’t you?”
“Much as you do, sir,” returned the old man, with his hands under opposite cuffs of his loose sleeves, as he stood at the table, deferentially observant of the master’s face. “May I take the liberty to say something?”
“You may,” Fledgeby graciously conceded.