"He insults me," cried Meadows, "because I won't have him for a tenant
against my will. Who is he? A villainous old Jew."

"Yes, young man," said the other, sadly, "I am Isaac Levi, a Jew. And
what is your religion" (he turned upon Meadows)? "It never came out of
Judea in any name or shape. D'ye call yourself a heathen? Ye lie, ye
cur; the heathen were not without starlight from heaven; they
respected sorrow and gray hairs."

"You shall smart for this. I'll show you what my religion is," said
Meadows, inadvertent with passion, and the corn-factor's fingers
grasped his stick convulsively.

"Don't you be so aggravating, old man," said the good-natured George,
"and you, Mr. Meadows, should know how to make light of an old man's
tongue; why it's like a woman's, it's all he has got to hit with;
leastways you mustn't lift hand to him on my premises, or you will
have to settle with me first; and I don't think that would suit your
book or any man's for a mile or two round about Farnborough," said
George with his little Berkshire drawl.

"He!" shrieked Isaac, "he dare not! see! see!" and he pointed nearly
into the man's eye, "he doesn't look you in the face. Any soul that
has read men from east to west can see lion in your eye, young man,
and cowardly wolf in his."

"Lady-day! Lady-day!" snorted Meadows, who was now shaking with
suppressed rage.

"Ah!" cried Isaac, and he turned white and quivered in his turn.