48 THE KING OF SCHNORRERS.
as for almond-cakes, Hyman himself makes none better than I get from my cousin, Barzillai of Fenchurch Street."
" Your cousin ! " exclaimed Grobstock, " the West Indian merchant ! "
"The same — formerly of Barbadoes. Still, your cook knows how to make coffee, though I can tell you do not get it direct from the plantation like the wardens of my Syna- gogue."
Grobstock was once again piqued with curiosity as to the Schnorrer' s identity.
" You accuse me of having stone figures in my house," he said boldly, " but what about the lions in front of yours? "
" I have no lions," said Manasseh.
" Wilkinson told me so. Didn't you, Wilkinson? "
" Wilkinson is a slanderer. That was the house of Na- thaniel Furtado."
Grobstock began to choke with chagrin. He perceived at once that the Schnorrer had merely had the clothes con- veyed direct to the house of a wealthy private dealer.
"Take care!" exclaimed the Schnorrer anxiously, " you are spluttering sauce all over that waistcoat, without any consideration for me."
Joseph suppressed himself with an effort. Open discus- sion would betray matters to his wife, and he was now too deeply enmeshed in falsehoods by default. But he managed to whisper angrily, " Why did you tell Wilkinson I ordered him to carry your box? "
" To save your credit in his eyes. How was he to know we had quarrelled ? He would have thought you discour- teous to your guest."
"That's all very fine. But why did you sell my clothes? "
"You did not expect me to wear them? No, I know my station, thank God."
