, who
had no time to speak correctly, nor to be comely or clean, was yet a
millionaire before whom Wall Street trembled--while he, Gerald Bennet,
with all his education, and polish, and care, and scrupulous neatness and
politeness, was a poverty-stricken, shiftless vagabond; and what good had
grammar done him? The ruined gentleman stood before the president--who
was seated in his large armchair at the bank--holding his hat
uncertainly, the nervous smile glimmering like heat lightning upon
his pale, anxious face, in which his eyes shone with that singular,
soft light of dreams.

"Now, Mr. Bennet, I sez to ma this very mornin'--sez I, 'Ma, I s'pose Mr.
Bennet 'll be wantin' a place in our bank. If he hadn't been so wery
fine,' sez I, 'he might have got on. He talks be-youtiful grammar, ma,'"
said the worthy President, screwing in the taunt, as it were; "'but
grammar ain't good to eat,' sez I. 'He ain't a self-made man, as some
folks is,' sez I; 'but I suppose I'll have to stick him in somewheres,'
sez I--that's all of it."

Gerald Bennet winced. Beggars mustn't be choosers, said he, feebly, in
his sad heart, and he thankfully took the broken victuals Jacob Van
Boozenberg threw him. But he advised Gabriel, as we saw, to try Lawrence
Newt.

Mrs. Newt agreed with Mr. Van Boozenberg that it was very warm.

"I heerd about you to Saratogy last summer, Mrs. Newt; but you ain't been
to see ma since you come home. 'Ma,' sez I, 'why don't Mrs. Newt call and
see us?' 'Law, pa,' sez she, 'Mrs. Newt can't call and see such folks as
we be!' sez she. 'We ain't fine enough for Mrs. Newt,'" said the great
man of Wall Street, and he laughed aloud at the excellent joke.

"Mrs. Van Boozenberg is very much mistaken," replied Mrs. Newt,
anxiously. "I am afraid she did not get my card. I am very sorry. But
I hope you will tell her."

The great Jacob knew perfectly well that Mrs. Newt had called, but he
liked to show himself how vast his power was. He liked to see fine ladies
in splendid drawing-rooms bowing, down before his ungrammatical throne,
and metaphorically kissing his knobby red hand.

"Your son, Abel, seems to enjoy himself werry well, Mrs. Newt," said Mr.
Van Boozenberg, as he observed that youth, in sumptuous array, dancing
devotedly with Mrs. Bleecker Van Kraut.

"Oh dear, yes," replied Mrs. Newt. "But you know what young sons are, Mr.
Van Boozenberg.'"

The conversation was setting precisely as that gentleman wished, and