smells which hung around the dark entry of the slop shop were indeed
the world, I felt a sudden and most vehement conviction that I would
willingly renounce the world for ever. As it happened, I had not at that
moment the choice. My friend had gone in, and I dared not stay among the
people outside. I groped my way into the shop, which was so dark as well
as dingy that they had lighted a small oil-lamp just above the head of
the man who served out the slops. Even so the light that fell on him was
dim and fitful, and was the means of giving me another start in which I
gasped out--"Moses Benson!"

The man turned and smiled (he had the Jew-clerk's exact smile), and said
softly,

"Cohen, my dear, not Benson."

And as he bent at another angle of the oil-lamp I saw that he was older
than the clerk, and dirtier; and though his coat was quite curiously
like the one I had so often cleaned, he had evidently either never met
with the invaluable "scouring drops," or did not feel it worth while to
make use of them in such a dingy hole.

One shock helped to cure the other. Come what might, I could not sneak
back now to the civil congratulations of that other Moses, and the scorn
of his eye. But I was so nervous that my fellow-traveller transacted my
business for me, and when the oil-lamp flared and I caught Moses Cohen
looking at me, I jumped as if Snuffy had come behind me. And when we got
out (and it was no easy matter to escape from the various benevolent
offers of the owner of the slop-shop), my friend said,

"You'll excuse me telling you, but whatever you do don't go near that