They don't complain: they don't cry
and say it's cruel. They know it's the rule of the game.
They accept it--and begin at once looking out for a new
set of fools and weaklings to recoup themselves on.
That's the way the City goes."
Thorpe had concluded his philosophical remarks with
ruminative slowness. As he lapsed into silence now, he fell
to studying his own hands on the desk-top before him.
He stretched out the fingers, curved them in different degrees,
then closed them tight and turned the bulky hard-looking
fists round for inspection in varying aspects.
"That's the kind of hand," he began again, thoughtfully,
"that breaks the Jew in the long run, if there's only
grit enough behind it. I used to watch those Jews'
hands, a year ago, when I was dining and wining them.
They're all thin and wiry and full of veins. Their fingers
are never still; they twist round and keep stirring
like a lobster's feelers. But there aint any real
strength in 'em. They get hold of most of the things
that are going, because they're eternally on the move.
It's their hellish industry and activity that gives them
such a pull, and makes most people afraid of them.
But when a hand like that takes them by the throat"--he
held up his right hand as he spoke, with the thick uncouth
fingers and massive thumb arched menacingly in a powerful
muscular tension--"when THAT tightens round their neck,
and they feel that the grip means business--my God!
what good are they?"
He laughed contemptuously, and slapped the relaxed palm
on the desk with a noise which made his sister start.
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