'Desire Mr Sampson Levi
to step this way.'
The great stockbroker of the 'Kaffir Circus' entered with a simple
unassuming air. He was a rather short, florid man, dressed like a
typical Hebraic financier, with too much watch-chain and too little
waistcoat. In his fat hand he held a gold-headed cane, and an
absolutely new silk hat - for it was Friday, and Mr Levi purchased
a new hat every Friday of his life, holiday times only excepted. He
breathed heavily and sniffed through his nose a good deal, as
though he had just performed some Herculean physical labour. He
glanced at the American millionaire with an expression in which a
slight embarrassment might have been detected, but at the same
time his round, red face disclosed a certain frank admiration and
good nature.
'Mr Racksole, I believe - Mr Theodore Racksole. Proud to meet
you, sir.'
Such were the first words of Mr Sampson Levi. In form they were
the greeting of a third-rate chimney-sweep, but, strangely enough,
Theodore Racksole liked their tone. He said to himself that here,
precisely where no one would have expected to find one, was an
honest man.
'Good day,' said Racksole briefly. 'To what do I owe the pleasure - '
'I expect your time is limited,' answered Sampson Levi. 'Anyhow,
mine is, and so I'll come straight to the point, Mr Racksole. I'm a
plain man. I don't pretend to be a gentleman or any nonsense of
that kind.
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