Alfred meditated. He looked about the room; the closet was empty. The bed had no pillows. The book cases were empty—everywhere poverty. He made a despondent gesture. “Well, take it!—I pledge it.” Then he paused. How could a person pawn his character? That was the dream of a foolish brain.
“I know what worries the gentleman. And Aron knows help for it, too.” He took from his pocket some little pill boxes, opened and closed them. “Look—here is your character,” he replied scornfully, tapping upon the cover of a box. Alfred looked at the little box. In the dim light he read the superscription:
“Noble characters!”
“Look—see how I classify character—all according to merit.”
“Here you have old fashioned Bohemian characters. They belong to old people—with long beards. Here are light characters—comparatively cheap—but not durable. I have to guard them constantly against changing winds. Sometimes politicians buy these characters for presents. In this box are found stern, upright characters. They are often found at army headquarters. But what do you care about them? You’d rather see the money counted out.” He took out another purse and piled shining ducats one upon another. Suddenly he paused. “In five years, at this same hour, Aron will come again, no matter where you may be. Then if you do not pay me back the sum with interest, the character belongs to me.”
Alfred nodded. The ghostly Jew grabbed deeper
