had just come out of Ebers's, where he had been filching an
opera-ticket. "You make it in bushels in the City, you know you
do---in thousands. I saw you go into Eglantine's. Fine business
that; finest in London. Five-shilling cakes of soap, my dear boy.
I can't wash with such. Thousands a year that man has made--hasn't
he?"

"Upon my word, Tom, I don't know," says the Captain.

"YOU not know? Don't tell me. You know everything--you agents.
You KNOW he makes five thousand a year--ay, and might make ten, but
you know why he don't."

"Indeed I don't."

"Nonsense. Don't humbug a poor old fellow like me.
Jews--Amos--fifty per cent., ay? Why can't he get his money from a
good Christian?"

"I HAVE heard something of that sort," said Walker, laughing. "Why,
by Jove, Tom, you know everything!"

"YOU know everything, my dear boy. You know what a rascally trick
that opera creature served him, poor fellow. Cashmere shawls--Storr
and Mortimer's--'Star and Garter.' Much better dine quiet off
pea-soup and sprats--ay? His betters have, as you know very well."

"Pea-soup and sprats! What! have you heard of that already?"

"Who bailed Lord Billingsgate, hey, you rogue?" and here Tom gave a