Perched on the stool with his hat cocked on his head and one of his legs dangling, the youth of Fledgeby hardly contrasted to advantage with the age of the Jewish man as he stood with his bare head bowed, and his eyes (which he only raised in speaking) on the ground. His clothing was worn down to the rusty hue of the hat in the entry, but though he looked shabby he did not look mean. Now, Fledgeby, though not shabby, did look mean.

“You have not told me what you were up to, you sir,” said Fledgeby, scratching his head with the brim of his hat.

“Sir, I was breathing the air.”

“In the cellar, that you didn’t hear?”

“On the housetop.”

“Upon my soul! That’s a way of doing business.”

“Sir,” the old man represented with a grave and patient air, “there must be two parties to the transaction of business, and the holiday has left me alone.”