But the familiar style of the old gentleman’s conversation begot a corresponding familiarity upon the part of Mr. Newt.  Mr. Van Boozenberg learned incidentally that Abel had never been in business before.  He observed the fresh odor of cigars in the counting-room—­he remarked the extreme elegance of Abel’s attire, and the inferential tailor’s bills.  He learned that Mrs. Newt and the family were enjoying themselves at Saratoga.  He derived from the conversation and his observation that there were very large family expenses to be met by Boniface Newt.

Meanwhile that gentleman had continually no other idea of his visitor than that he was insufferable.  He had confessed to Abel that the old man was shrewd.  His shrewdness was a proverb.  But he is a dull, ignorant, ungrammatical, and ridiculous old ass for all that, thought Boniface Newt; and the said ass sitting in Boniface Newt’s counting-room, and amusing and fatiguing Messrs. Newt & Son with his sez I’s, and sez shes, and his mas, and his done its, was quietly making up his mind that the house of Newt & Son had received no accession of capital or strength by the entrance of the elegant Abel into a share of its active management, and that some slight whispers which he had heard remotely affecting the standing of the house must be remembered.

“A werry pretty store you have here, Mr. Newt.  Find Pearl Street as good as Beaver?”

“Oh yes, Sir,” replied Boniface Newt, bowing and rubbing his hands.  “Call again, Sir; it’s a rare pleasure to see you here, Mr. Van Boozenberg.”

“Well, you know, ma, sez she, now pa you mustn’t sit in draughts.  It’s so sort of draughty down town in your horrid offices, pa, sez she—­sez ma, you know—­that I’m awful ’fraid you’ll catch your death, sez she, and I must mind ma, you know.  Good-mornin’, Mr. Newt, a werry good-mornin’, Sir,” said the old gentleman, as he stepped out.

“Do you have much of that sort of thing to undergo in business, father?” asked Abel, when Jacob Van Boozenberg had gone.

“My dear son,” replied the older Mr. Newt, “the world is made up of fools, bores, and knaves.  Some of them speak good grammar and use white cambric pocket-handkerchiefs, some do not.  It’s dreadful, I know, and I am rather tired of a world where you are busy driving donkeys with a chance of their presently driving you.”

Mr. Boniface Newt shook his foot pettishly.

“Father,” said Abel.

“Well.”

“Which is Uncle Lawrence—­a fool, a bore, or a knave?”

Mr. Boniface Newt’s foot stopped, and, after looking at his son for a few moments, he answered: