The little tailor threw out his hands—­each finger an exclamation point—­and laughed heartily, cutting short Peter’s tirade.

“No—­no—­we do none of these dreadful things to Mr. Breen; he is too good to be a saint,” and he patted Jack’s knees—­“and then again it is only the truth.  Mr. Breen is quite right; we are a race of money-getters, and we are also the world’s pawnbrokers and will always be.  Sometimes we make a loan on a watch or a wedding ring to keep some poor soul from starving; sometimes it is a railroad to give a millionaire a yacht, or help buy his wife a string of pearls.  It is quite the same, only over one shop we hang three gilt balls:  on the other we nail a sign which reads:  ‘Financial Agents.’  And it is the same Jew, remember, who stands behind both counters.  The first Jew is overhauled almost every day by the police; the second Jew is regarded as our public-spirited citizen.  So you see, my young friend, that it is only a question of the amount of money you have got whether you loan on rings or railroads.”

“And whether the Christian lifts his hat or his boot,” laughed Peter.

Cohen leaned his elbows on his plump knees and went on, the slender glass still in his hand, from which now and then he took a sip.  Peter sat buried in his chair, his cigar between his fingers.  Jack held his peace; it was not for him to air his opinions in the presence of the two older men, and then again the tailor had suddenly become a savant.

“Of course, there are many things I wish were different,” the tailor continued in a more thoughtful tone.  “Many of my people forget their birthright and force themselves on the Christian, trying to break down the fence which has always divided us, and which is really our best protection.  As long as we keep to ourselves we are a power.  Persecution,—­and sometimes it amounts to that—­is better than amalgamation; it brings out our better fighting qualities and makes us rely on ourselves.  This is the view of our best thinkers, and they are right.  Just hear me run on!  Why talk about these things?  They are for graybeards, not young fellows with the world before them.”  Cohen straightened up—­ laid his glass on the small table, waved his hand in denial to Peter who started to refill it, and continued, turning to Jack:  “And now let me hear something about your own work, Mr. Breen,” he said in his kindest and most interested voice.  “Mr. Grayson tells me you are cutting a great tunnel.  Under a mountain, is it not?  Ah!—­that is something worth doing.  And here is this old uncle of yours with his fine clothes and his old wine, who does nothing but pore over his musty bank-books, and here am I in the cellar below, who can only sew on buttons, and yet we have the impudence to criticise you.  Really, I never heard of such conceit!”

“Oh!—­but it isn’t my tunnel,” Jack eagerly protested, greatly amused at the Jew’s talk; “I am just an assistant, Mr. Cohen.”  Somehow he had grown suddenly smaller since the little man had been talking.