The Song of the Flea Read Online Free PDF Page A

and some sausages and bread to take home. This is the first time I have accosted strangers in the street. Believe me, I should not have done so if I had not been driven by necessity.’ … I wouldn’t mind betting that a line of talk like that brought in more than a pound a day. And there you are. All you need is a clean box of matches. On second thoughts, better have two: there’s always someone who takes the box of matches to have something to show for the shilling he has given you. Look,” said Pym, putting down two of his last three pennies, “I’ll set you up in business. Buy two boxesof matches and keep that broken tin whistle. When it gets rusty, buy another and stamp on it.”
    The morning was bright. Pym took hold of his suitcase and stood up.
    “I’m sure I’m more than grateful to you, sir. I hope one day I’ll have the opportunity to repay you.”
    “Think nothing of it.” Pym went out, smiling at Gina.
    As the door closed her smile disappeared; her mouth became sullen and ferocious. She stamped on her high-heeled shoes to where the little musician was sitting and said: “You leave people alone! You go away out of here!”
    “But tell me, lady, what have I done?”
    “I do wanna know! You interfere with my customers, and you stay out of this place!”
    “I mean no harm, I’m sure,” the little man said. He picked up his pennies, adjusted his bowler hat, and left the café.
    Half an hour later, having reported the incident to his wife, after emptying his pockets, he said: “I love these steamers that try and teach you your business! Count the takings, Pat.”
    *
    Pym walked slowly, thinking hard, figuring. He was wondering which pawnshop to visit first. He carried tickets from three pawnbrokers in different parts of the City. Greenberg & Co. had the typewriter; McCormick Ltd. had a silver cigarette case and an old silver watch; Messrs. MacAllister & MacDermott had lent him twenty-five shillings on a grey summer suit and a blue winter overcoat in an old-fashioned heavy leather suitcase. After the manner of men in his uneasy situation he was weighing one pawnbroker against another and trying to find a pennyweight of difference on the generous side. Futile speculation! A pig is not called a pig for nothing, as the Petchenyeg said in the story; and a pawnbroker is not a pawnbroker except by vocation.
    A pawnbroker must purge himself of commiseration, sweating himself clean of pity, and with the hard rubber nozzle of practical common sense probe and irrigate his bowels of compassion. He too has his living to get It is perfectly reasonable. If a drunken washerwoman came to him to pledge her flat-ironsand he lent her a pound instead of a shilling, the time would come when his wife, washing dirty linen for a bit of bread and a sausage, would creep out one Monday morning to pawn her flat-irons for tenpence.
    He is necessary, like hangmen, slaughterers, and dentists. Since people must borrow, the pawnbroker must lend, not without security. Therefore he must learn the ultimate value of an Unredeemed Pledge. He must learn to read and translate all the inscriptions that Want carves on a human face, and translate them into arithmetic. He must lock his heart when he unlocks his shop door and take off compassion with his overcoat. Pym knew that an object valued at nine-and-sixpence by Greenberg would be valued at nine-and-sixpence by the others. In the weird unanimity of pawnbrokers, a superstitious man in need sometimes imagines that he hears the beat of Congo drums.
    Pym had often wondered what makes a man decide to be a pawnbroker, a dentist, or a hangman. A medical student, learning a little bit of everything, is sidetracked by successful enquiry into a carneous mole, and finds himself, almost in spite of himself, specialising in obstetrics. He does not, in his formative years, raise a shining boyish face to his father and, in reply to enquiry as to what he hopes to do, say: ‘Father, I want to explore