University of Virginia Library

9. Chapter IX.
Mr. Jobson's Visitors.

WHEN the young gentleman who had found himself,
as it seemed, unexpectedly within a tenant-room of
Foley's Barracks, and in presence of a dead mother and
fainting daughter, departed to continue his search for
Mr. Jobson, his mind was filled with conjectures regarding
the spectacle just presented to his view—involving, of
course, speculations concerning Emily, and comparisons
between her and Mrs. Dumsey not favorable to the latter
—all of which mental wool-gathering was interjected by
expostulatory “pshaws,” and closed by an abrupt encounter
with an individual, in broadcloth and patent-leathers,
heretofore introduced to the reader.

“Mr. Peyton! here?” exclaimed the agent, starting
back in surprise at meeting this fashionable young gentleman
in a dim passage-way of Foley's Barracks.

“Veritably me!” returned the stranger; “at which,
doubtless, you are greatly astonished, as usual, Jobson?”

“But to come here, Mr. Peyton, you know!”

“Where the deuce else would I be likely to find you,
my dear Jobson? Here is your domain, where you indulge
all your charming little eccentricities, such as

squeezing the last dollar from miserable debtors, and
selling at auction the broken chairs and straw beds of
pauper tenants. Eh, Jobson! am I right?”

“You're hard on me, Mr. Peyton; but you will have
your joke, you know.”

“Joke! not a bit of it! But, let's to business—for
your avarice has already divined what brought me here, in
your place of torment. Jobson, I want money!”

“But, Mr. Peyton,”—began the agent, hesitatingly.

“None of your sham excuses. My sleigh is at the
door, and you'll oblige me by just stepping into it; for,
egad! money I must have, and you shall get it for me!”

Saying this, the young gentleman, in rather an impetuous
manner, ran his arm through that of Jobson, and
descended the stairs so rapidly that he dragged the agent
downward with imminent peril to his neck. Arrived at
the floor entrance, the latter beheld a stylish sleigh, with
a pair of horses, restrained by a negro driver, who held
the reins, but evidently so restive that Mr. Jobson drew
back in apparent alarm. His companion, however, hurried
him forward, and the wondering tenants around,
much to their astonishment, beheld their landlord captured,
as it were, in this summary manner, and borne
away by flying steeds through whirling drifts of snow. It
is likely that, had they considered this a final farewell on
the part of Mr. Jobson, more than one of them might
have been tempted to indulge in personal feeling to the
extent of projecting a few missiles after the sleigh; but
as it was, they contented themselves with sundry muttered
expletives which may or may not have reached the agent's

ears. Altogether, Mr. Jobson was not a particular favorite
of the tenants of Foley's Barracks.

Out of poverty's precincts, the horses sped fast, gaily
prancing through the drifts in narrow streets, until Broadway
was at last reached, with its jangle of merry sleigh-bells.
Meantime, Mr. Jobson remained silent, as if
immersed in thought, till the quick tones of his companion's
voice suddenly roused him:

“Jobson! how does our business stand? What do I
owe you?”

“Well, to tell the truth, I couldn't, you know, just give
the exact” —

“Pshaw! I'll wager, now, you have the sum, principal
and interest, to a fraction, at your finger's end! And,
moreover, I know just what your computation will be!”

“And what is it?—if you'd be so good?” asked the
agent, with a covert smile.

“Just the highest penny you think I'll stand, Jobson!
eh! I have you there!”

“You've such a way, Mr. Peyton. But really, you
know,” —

“Nonsense! I know all about you, Jobby, my boy!
But here we are at your confounded office, where I danced
attendance a full half-hour before I learned your whereabouts.
Now, Jobson! spry, my good fellow; for I've
an appointment to dine to-day.” Saying this, Mr. Peyton
sprang from the sleigh, and catching the agent's hand,
landed him, with a jerk, upon the sidewalk.

Mr. Jobson's office was a small, square, uncarpeted
room, with a cubby-hole adjoining, on the ground floor of

a building devoted to the accommodation of lawyers,
brokers, artists, speculators, and all other professional or
non-professional sojourners in a “good business locality.”
On a tin sign at the door was painted, “J. Jobson, Real
Estate,” and over the lintel was inscribed, upon a board,
“Superintendent.” An open stove, with a sleepy-looking
fire, stood in the middle of the floor; near one of the dirty
windows was a high desk, at which a red-haired young man
sat, posting books. On the walls hung a few dust-covered
maps. The cubby-hole, or sanctum of Mr. Jobson, was an
oblong space, separated by a glazed door, with a green
curtain; and in this cubby-hole were an iron safe, a small
desk, and a rotary stool, which completely furnished the
apartment, there not being room for another article. Into
this, his sanctum, Mr. Jobson preceded his companion,
and seated himself upon the stool, before his desk, while
Peyton vaulted nimbly on the safe, and there established
himself—his legs dangling in the remaining space of the
apartment.

“Now, Shylock, my boy—let me have the needful.”

Mr. Jobson requested Mr. Peyton to “be so kind as to
raise your leg, you know,” and then, opening the safe-door,
drew forth, from various crevices within, a handful of
smoky-looking papers, apparently memoranda of different
ventures on the sea of money-craft; he unfolded, one by
one, and then as carefully refolded, several dog-eared
documents, from which, at no distant day, he well knew
as good gold would be extracted as if they were the
fabled philosopher's stone itself; he thumbed the parchment
records of foreclosed mortgages and notes of judgments

gone by default; and at length he drew out a roll
of paper slips, tied tightly with a red tape, and as he
unfastened and glanced at them, gave utterance to several
cabalistic words:

“Um! Two hundr'd—seven hundr'd—five hundr'd—
seventy-five—three hundr'd—nine hundr'd—five is five—
two and seven's nine—five's fourteen, and three is” —

“What the deuce are you about, Jobson?” here interrupted
Peyton, who had been yawning over the agent's
delay, and now vented his impatience by a stretch of his
limbs, which caused his foot, either through accident or
design, to fly suddenly against certain broadcloth-covered
sesquipedal proportions, forcing an abrupt whirl of the
rotary stool, that almost destroyed Mr. Jobson's equilibrium,
as he leaned on the edge of the desk.

“Ouch! Mr. Peyton! He, he! you're so rough, you
know! Might ha' broke my back!”

“Hurry yourself, then, and no more nonsense! Just
defer the study of my notes and obligations to another
time, you unconsionable usurer! and attend to my present
necessities. At your leisure you can gloat over the documents,
and study out new methods of overreaching! but
be so good now as to hand over the needful—five hundred,
at least!”

“But, you know, Mr. Peyton,”—began Jobson.

“I know nothing at present but the want of money.
There's my note; and the securities you have already.
So hand over!”

Jobson sighed, and drew from his safe a plethoric
packet of bank-notes, from which he passed over the

required amount, after closely scanning Peyton's obligation;
and the young gentleman, cramming the bills carelessly
into his pocket-book, then leaped from the safe.

“Is your uncle well, Mr. Peyton?” inquired Jobson, as
he proceeded to return his papers to the safe.

“Unfortunately for you—yes!” returned the other,
with a laugh.

“He, he! you're so funny!” rejoined Jobson, as his
visitor left the cubby-hole.

“Ah—by-the-way, who is that young girl—a tenant of
yours—whose mother died last night?” inquired Peyton,
pausing on the threshold, and speaking in a low key.

Jobson started, and changed color. “Eh!” he remarked,
carelessly, “you saw her—a protégé of mine, you
know.”

This was said with a nod and wink, at which Peyton
laughed, and called Jobson a “sly dog,” whereat Jobson
chuckled and rubbed his hands. Then the fashionable
young gentleman emerged from the agent's office, sprang
into his handsome sleigh, and was borne swiftly away.
Jobson returned to his cubby-hole, reclosed his safe,
walked a few moments up and down the outer apartment,
with his hands clasped under his coat-tails, and then muttered
between his teeth—

“Impertinent spendthrift!—he saw Emily, it seems!
but I'll—I'll take care o' that!”

“Well, Jobson! how are you to-day?” said a voice at
his elbow; and turning, he beheld a man of fine exterior
and richly dressed, but with marks of dissipation on his
features.

“Ah, Mr. Richmond—proud to see you here? Heavy
fall o' snow, last night.”

“Have you ascertained concerning the matter of which
I spoke, Jobson?” asked the visitor, in a low tone, seating
himself in a chair offered by the agent, while the latter
drew his rotary stool from its aperture.

“Estate of Mordecai Kolephat—property, et cetera, of
all kinds! Every item, Mr. Richmond—that is, you
know, all reliable items—eh? Wealthy man! Richer
than I thought! Here's a list of houses, et cetera, drawn
up from best authorities.”

Mr. Jobson took from a drawer in his desk a folded
paper, and handed it to his visitor.

“Thank you, Mr. Jobson!—this is reliable?”

“Safe—best authorities—almost to a T what he's
worth,” answered the agent. Then, as the gentleman
rose, he asked: “Did you meet Mr. Peyton? He's just
left here—two-horse sleigh!”

“No, he must have turned the corner. Two-horse
sleigh!—fast young man, Peyton.”

“Gay—a little gay!” returned Mr. Jobson. “Spends
freely! but then, you know, when his uncle dies, he'll be a
rich man!”

“Ah, yes!” said Mr. Richmond, moodily. “But people's
dying is not so certain.”

“Young people's,” assented Jobson, deferentially. “But
his uncle's old, you know.”

“And why not the young as well as old?” muttered
the other, as he turned toward the door.

“I—I don't know but they may, you know,” said Mr.

Jobson, quickly, willing to correct himself, if he had committed
an error. But the visitor had already departed,
with scarce a nod.

“Got somethin' on his mind—that's clear!” soliloquised
the agent, resuming his walk. “Mr. Richmond's a queer
man—very rich, but a queer man!”

A timid knock at the office-door now announced a new
visitor; and Mr. Jobson cried, in a loud tone, “Come in!”
upon which the door opened slowly, and discovered a man
who entered hesitatingly, removing from his head a very
shabby hat.

“Shut the door!” said Mr. Jobson, sharply, as he
seemed to recognize the new-comer, who obeyed the mandate
in a tremulous manner, and remained just within side,
apparently without courage to advance.

“It's you, Dobbs! is it?” said the agent, pursing out
his under lip, and elevating his chin at an angle, without
looking directly at his visitor. Then, with a jerk of his
under jaw, as though he was apprehensive of tetanus, he
projected the word “Well?”

This interrogative exclamation appeared, in fact, to
operate as a well-aimed missile upon the unfortunate
Dobbs, who, after several efforts to enunciate something,
continued dumb.

“Come to beg off again, I take it,” pursued Mr. Jobson,
letting his eyes fall upon the silent man at the door, with
an expression which seemed to make that individual
shrink into a yet smaller space than his thin figure had
before occupied. The two now stood in strong contrast
before the furtive glance of the red-haired clerk; indeed,

it was easy to perceive that Jobson and Dobbs were quite
different men. The former, arrayed in glossy broadcloth,
with portly dimensions, patent-leather boots, imposing
watch-establishment, and head thrown back in conscious
dignity of position; and the latter, a small man, with thin
legs, his coat rusty and threadbare, his shoes patched, his
features worn and thoughtful, and an air of unmistakable
penury about his entire person and demeanor.

“If you please, sir,” at last ventured the little man,
coughing once or twice, to reassure himself, “if I might
explain” —

“Yes, that's it!—that's the way! Always explaining,
you know! And, pray, Mr. Dobbs, what might you
explain this time?”

“I have met with a great misfortune,”—began the
shabby man, but was again taken up suddenly by the
agent.

“I'll be bound you have,” said that personage, with a
sneer; “you're always meeting misfortunes, Dobbs! Well,
go on, sir—go on! My time is always at your disposal,
you know,” he added, ironically.

The little man appeared for a moment to struggle with
some rising emotion, which he checked with difficulty, and
then resumed:

“A fire took place, last night, and” —. He hesitated.

“Well?” The catapult word struck the poor man a
second time, full in the face.

“My little shop, tools, machine, everything—gone—
ashes!” cried Dobbs, in hurried interjections; after concluding

which, he retreated close to the wall, and wiped
his forehead with a faded silk handkerchief.

Mr. Jobson remained silent during a moment's space,
and fixed his eyes upon Dobbs, with an expression of fearful
import, as if measuring the dimensions of the little
man, before proceeding to annihilate him. Then, advancing
close to his victim, so that his watch-seals pressed
against that wretched being's shivering form, he drew a
long inward breath, and straightened himself menacingly.

“Hah—you—Dobbs!” he said, “you—come—here, and
tell me my security is gone—burnt—destroyed! My
property, sir—my security” —. He paused, and glared
terribly upon Dobbs.

“But I—I will pay all I owe, Mr. Jobson—if you will
be easy. This is a sudden—a very great misfortune.”

“Dobbs!—you shall pay me! Remember that! I'll
have no shilly-shally. Hark ye, sir! you owe me seventy-five
dollars, with interest and costs. I took a mortgage
on your rickety machine and tools, to secure my debt;
and now, sir,”—Jobson elevated his voice to a very high
key—“now, sir, you've gone and burnt them—to swindle
me—to swindle me, sir!”

“Mr. Jobson!” expostulated the debtor, lifting his thin
arms, while a crimson flush overspread his pallid cheeks,
“don't say that!”

“It's a trick—a humbug! I'll see to it, sir.”

“It is no trick, Mr. Jobson! I have lost, in one night,
the result of ten years' labor! I am disheartened!”

There was an earnest pathos in the utterance of these
last words which might have touched any heart but Jobson's.

They seemed to express the utter prostration of
hope.

“I'll find out all about it, Dobbs. I'm not to be gammoned,
you know,” cried the agent, wrathfully.

“I owe you a month's rent, Mr. Jobson. If I could be
allowed to look about a bit among my friends” —

“Yes! look about! and run up another score! No,
sir! pay the rent, or leave! That's my answer. Pay,
or go!”

Mr. Jobson, in saying this, reached forward, and opened
the door.

“I will do all in my power, Mr. Jobson,” replied the
debtor, mildly, as he covered his head with the shabby
hat, and turned away. “I am sorry you are so hard on
me.”

“Good day, Dobbs! Pay, or go, you know!” said the
agent, with a malicious emphasis, and then slammed the
door hard upon the retreating figure of the poor man,
who said not another word, but went his melancholy way.
Mr. Jobson then startled his red-locked clerk with a mandate
enjoining him to repair at once to the locality of
the little work-shop lately occupied by Dobbs the Inventor,
and ascertain, by personal inspection, the amount of damage
done by the fire; after which, dusting his glossy
beaver and patent leathers, the respectable agent, superintendent,
and broker of real estate, leisurely sallied out
once more upon the busy thoroughfare.