he, Gerald Bennet, with all his education, and polish, and care, and scrupulous neatness and politeness, was a poverty-stricken, shiftless vagabond; and what good had grammar done him?  The ruined gentleman stood before the president—­who was seated in his large armchair at the bank—­holding his hat uncertainly, the nervous smile glimmering like heat lightning upon his pale, anxious face, in which his eyes shone with that singular, soft light of dreams.

“Now, Mr. Bennet, I sez to ma this very mornin’—­sez I, ’Ma, I s’pose Mr. Bennet ‘ll be wantin’ a place in our bank.  If he hadn’t been so wery fine,’ sez I, ‘he might have got on.  He talks be-youtiful grammar, ma,’” said the worthy President, screwing in the taunt, as it were; “’but grammar ain’t good to eat,’ sez I.  ’He ain’t a self-made man, as some folks is,’ sez I; ‘but I suppose I’ll have to stick him in somewheres,’ sez I—­that’s all of it.”

Gerald Bennet winced.  Beggars mustn’t be choosers, said he, feebly, in his sad heart, and he thankfully took the broken victuals Jacob Van Boozenberg threw him.  But he advised Gabriel, as we saw, to try Lawrence Newt.

Mrs. Newt agreed with Mr. Van Boozenberg that it was very warm.

“I heerd about you to Saratogy last summer, Mrs. Newt; but you ain’t been to see ma since you come home.  ‘Ma,’ sez I, ’why don’t Mrs. Newt call and see us?’ ‘Law, pa,’ sez she, ’Mrs. Newt can’t call and see such folks as we be!’ sez she.  ‘We ain’t fine enough for Mrs. Newt,’” said the great man of Wall Street, and he laughed aloud at the excellent joke.

“Mrs. Van Boozenberg is very much mistaken,” replied Mrs. Newt, anxiously.  “I am afraid she did not get my card.  I am very sorry.  But I hope you will tell her.”

The great Jacob knew perfectly well that Mrs. Newt had called, but he liked to show himself how vast his power was.  He liked to see fine ladies in splendid drawing-rooms bowing, down before his ungrammatical throne, and metaphorically kissing his knobby red hand.

“Your son, Abel, seems to enjoy himself werry well, Mrs. Newt,” said Mr. Van Boozenberg, as he observed that youth, in sumptuous array, dancing devotedly with Mrs. Bleecker Van Kraut.

“Oh dear, yes,” replied Mrs. Newt.  “But you know what young sons are, Mr. Van Boozenberg.’”

The conversation was setting precisely as that gentleman wished, and as he had intended to direct it.

“Mercy, yes, Mrs. Newt!  Ma sez to me, ’Pa, what a boy Corlear is! how he does spend money!’ And I sez to ma, ‘Ma, he do.’  Tut, tut!  The bills.  I have to pay for that bay—!  I s’pose, now, your Abel don’t lay up no money—­ha! ha!”

Mr. Van Boozenberg laughed again, and Mrs. Newt joined, but in a low and rather distressed way, as if it were necessary to laugh, although nothing funny had been said.

“It’s positively dreadful the way he spends money,” replied she.  “I don’t know where it will end.”