thing I make no profit on; you know that."

The customer doesn't look as though he did, and rising, turns to go.

"Send a man to carry it away," says the dealer.

"At six and three!"

"No, at six and four!" and the customer goes away.

"Send the man, it is thine," is hastily called after him, and in a few
moments he returns with a Jewish porter, and pays his "six and three."

So our worthy trader does business all day, and seems to thrive on it.
Occasionally a friend drops in to chat and not to buy, and now and
then there is a beggar; here is one.

An aged crone she is, of most forbidding countenance, swathed in rags,
it is a wonder she can keep together. She leans on a formidable staff,
and in a piteous voice, "For the face of the Lord," and "In the name
of my Lord Slave-of-the-Able" (Mulai Abd el Káder, a favourite saint),
she begs something "For God." One copper suffices to induce her to
call down untold blessings on the head of the donor, and she trudges
away in the mud, barefooted, repeating her entreaties till they sound
almost a wail, as she turns the next corner. But beggars who can be
so easily disposed of at the rate of a hundred and ninety-five for a
shilling can hardly be considered troublesome.

A respectable-looking man next walks in with measured tread, and
leaning towards us, says almost in a whisper--