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'Why not? inquired the Captain. 'Why? The amount's three hundred and seventy, odd, replied the broker. 'Never mind, returned the Captain, though he was evidently dismayed by the figures: 'all's fish that comes to your net, I suppose? 'Certainly, said Mr Brogley. 'But sprats ain't whales, you know. The philosophy of this observation seemed to strike the Captain.
There lived in those days, round the corner in Bishopsgate Street Without one Brogley, sworn broker and appraiser, who kept a shop where every description of second-hand furniture was exhibited in the most uncomfortable aspect, and under circumstances and in combinations the most completely foreign to its purpose.
Sunday coming round, he set off therefore, after breakfast, once more to beat up Captain Cuttle's quarters. This the Captain, in a moment of uncommon conviviality, had confided to Walter and his Uncle, between the repetitions of lovely Peg, on the night when Brogley the broker was paid out.
Mr Brogley, who was averse to being any constraint upon the party, and who had an ingenious cast of mind, went, softly whistling, among the stock; rattling weather-glasses, shaking compasses as if they were physic, catching up keys with loadstones, looking through telescopes, endeavouring to make himself acquainted with the use of the globes, setting parallel rulers astride on to his nose, and amusing himself with other philosophical transactions.
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