“The book’s no good to me!” Hamar grunted.  “The money is.  Here! hand me over the four dollars and you can have the chain.  It’s eighteen carat gold and worth at least ten dollars.”

“Then why not take it to some one who will give you ten dollars!” sneered the Jew.  “Because you know better.  You’re no greenhorn.  That chain is fifteen carat at the most, and there’s not a man in this city who would give you more than four dollars for it.”

“Very well, then!” Hamar said sulkily.  “I agree.  No! the money first.”

The Jew dived deep down into his trouser pocket, and, after foraging about for some seconds, produced a handful of greasy coins, out of which he carefully selected the sum named.

Hamar, who had been watching him greedily, grabbed the coins, bit them with his teeth, and rang them on the counter.  With an air of relief he then slipped his watch-chain into the outstretched palm before him, remarked upon the fact that the rain had suddenly ceased, and prepared to take his departure.

“Here’s the book!” the Jew ejaculated, whilst his face became suffused with a smirk.  “Don’t go without it.  Now! there’s no knowing but what we may not have further dealings with one another.  I’m a money-lender—­I’ve a place down-stairs—­I take all sorts of things—­all sorts of things.  On the strict Q.T. mind.  Sabez!”

In another moment Hamar found himself standing on the wet pavement, nursing the four dollars in his waistcoat pocket with one hand, and mechanically clutching the despised volume with the other.  Had he ever acted upon impulse, he would most certainly have hurled the book into the gutter; but on second thoughts he came to the conclusion that it would be better to dispose of it less obstrusively.

It was now evening, and having tasted nothing since mid-day, he realized, for at least the hundredth time that week, that he was hungry.  The touch of the dollars, however, only made him smile.  He could eat his full for twenty-five cents and yet live well for another four days.  And, besides, he still had a tie-pin and a fur coat.  He might get a dollar on the one and two, if not two and a half, on the other; which would carry him through till the end of the week when something else might turn up—­something which would not involve too hard work and would just keep him clear of jail.  He turned sharply down Montgomery Street, crossed Kearney Street, and slipped noiselessly through the side doorway of a restaurant, in a suspicious-looking alley, not a hundred yards distant from the gorgeously illuminated Palace Hotel.  Here, within five minutes, he was served with as good a meal as one could get in San Francisco for the money—­and if the table linen was not as clean as it might have been, the food was not a whit the less excellent for that.  At least so Hamar thought; and it was not until there was nothing left to eat that he left off eating.  When he thought no one was looking in his direction, he popped the despised book under his chair and rose to go.  Before he had gone ten yards, however, one of the waiters came running after him.