Eliakim Henderson, for that was his name, was a small man, with a bald head, scattering² yellow whiskers, and foxlike eyes. Spiderlike he waited for the flies who flew of their own accord into his clutches, and took care not to let them go until he had levied³ a large tribute. When Paul entered the shop, there were three customers ahead of him. One was a young woman, whose pale face and sunken cheeks showed that she was waging an unequal conflict with disease. She was a seamstress by occupation, and had to work fifteen hours a day to earn the little that was barely sufficient to keep body and soul together. Confined in her close little room on the fourth floor, she scarcely dared to snatch time to look out of the window into the street beneath, lest she should not be able to complete her allotted⁴ task. A two days' sickness had compelled her to have recourse to Eliakim Henderson. She had under her arm a small bundle covered with an old copy of the Sun.

“What have you got there?” asked the old man, roughly. “Show it quick, for there's others waiting.”

Meekly⁵ she unfolded a small shawl, somewhat faded from long use.

“What will you give me on that?” she asked, timidly.

“It isn't worth much.”

“It cost five dollars.”

“Then you got cheated. It never was worth half the money. What do you want on it?”

The seamstress intended to ask a dollar and a half, but after this depreciation⁶ she did not venture to name so high a figure.

“A dollar and a quarter,” she said.

“A dollar and a quarter!” repeated the old man,

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