my clothes?" "You did not expect me to wear them? No, I know my station, thank God." [49] [49] "What is that you are saying, Mr. da Costa?" asked the hostess. "Oh, we are talking of Dan Mendoza," replied Grobstock glibly; "wondering if he'll beat Dick Humphreys at Doncaster." "Oh, Joseph, didn't you have enough of Dan Mendoza at supper last night?" protested his wife. "It is not a subject I ever talk about," said the Schnorrer, fixing his host with a reproachful glance. Grobstock desperately touched his foot under the table, knowing he was selling his soul to the King of Schnorrers, but too flaccid to face the moment. "No, da Costa doesn't usually," he admitted. "Only Dan Mendoza being a Portuguese I happened to ask if he was ever seen in the Synagogue." "If I had my way," growled da Costa, "he should be excommunicated—a bruiser, a defacer of God's image!" "By gad, no!" cried Grobstock, stirred up. "If you had seen him lick the Badger in thirty-five minutes on a twenty-four foot stage—" "Joseph! Joseph! Remember it is the Sabbath!" cried Mrs. Grobstock. "I would willingly exchange our Dan Mendoza for your David Levi," said da Costa severely. David Levi was the literary ornament of the Ghetto; a shoe-maker and hat-dresser who cultivated Hebrew philology and the Muses, and broke a lance in defence of his creed with Dr. Priestley, the discoverer of Oxygen, and Tom Paine, the discoverer of Reason. "Pshaw! David Levi! The mad hatter!" cried Grobstock. "He makes nothing at all out of his books." "You should subscribe for more copies," retorted Manasseh. [50] [50]
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