Eliakim Henderson, for that was his name, was a small man, with a bald
head, scattering 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 levied 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 allotted 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."
Meekly 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
depreciation she did not venture to name so high a figure.
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