The merchant bowed, and knocked at the door of a red brick house—­door green—­brass knocker.  Captain Gregory Jones was a tall man; he wore a blue coat without skirts; he had high cheek bones, small eyes, and his whole appearance was eloquent of what is generally termed the bluff honesty of the seaman.  Captain Gregory seemed somewhat disconcerted at seeing his friend—­he begged for a little further time.  The merchant looked grave—­three years had already elapsed.  The Captain demurred—­the merchant pressed—­the Captain blustered—­and the merchant, growing angry, began to threaten.  All of a sudden Captain Jones’s manner changed—­he seemed to recollect himself, begged pardon, said he could easily procure the money, desired the merchant to go back to his inn, and promised to call on him in the course of the day.  Mynheer Meyer went home, and ordered an excellent dinner.  Time passed—­his friend came not.  Meyer grew impatient.  He had just put on his hat and was walking out, when the waiter threw open the door, and announced two gentlemen.

“Ah, dere comes de monish,” thought Mynheer Meyer.  The gentlemen approached—­the taller one whipped out what seemed to Meyer a receipt.  “Ah, ver well, I vill sign, ver well!”

“Signing, Sir, is useless; you will be kind enough to accompany us.  This is a warrant for debt, Sir; my house is extremely comfortable—­gentlemen of the first fashion go there—­quite moderate, too, only a guinea a-day—­find your own wine.”

“I do—­no—­understand, Sare,” said the merchant, smiling amiably, “I am ver vell off here—­thank you—­”

“Come, come,” said the other gentleman, speaking for the first time, “no parlavoo Monsoo, you are our prisoner—­this is a warrant for the sum of 10,000l. due to Captain Gregory Jones.”

The merchant stared—­the merchant frowned—­but so it was.  Captain Gregory Jones, who owed Mynheer Meyer 500l., had arrested Mynheer Meyer for 10,000l.; for, as every one knows, any man may arrest us who has conscience enough to swear that we owe him money.  Where was Mynheer Meyer in a strange town to get bail?  Mynheer Meyer went to prison.

“Dis be a strange vay of paying a man his monish!” said Mynheer Meyer.

In order to wile away time, our merchant, who was wonderfully social, scraped acquaintance with some of his fellow-prisoners.  “Vat be you in prishon for?” said he to a stout respectable-looking man who seemed in a violent passion—­“for vhat crime?”

“I, Sir, crime!” quoth the prisoner; “Sir, I was going to Liverpool to vote at the election, when a friend of the opposite candidate had me suddenly arrested for 2,000l.  Before I get bail the election will be over!”

“Vat’s that you tell me? arrest you to prevent your giving an honesht vote? is that justice?”

“Justice, no!” cried our friend, it’s the Law of Arrest.”

“And vat be you in prishon for?” said the merchant pityingly to a thin cadaverous-looking object, who ever and anon applied a handkerchief to eyes that were worn with weeping.