MR. JONES was a gett, a four-eyed twopenn'orth o' coppers, a sludge-bumping bastard who thumped Brian six times across the shoulder with a hard knotty fist because he didn't open a book quickly enough. "The Merch-chant of Venn-niss," he screamed, each syllable a synchronized crash of pain on Brian's bones. "Got it?" he demanded. "Got it, you oaf? When I order you to open your book, don't spend five minutes over it."
A parting bat on the tab for good measure left him more or less in peace, staring at a coloured picture on which his searching had stopped. A man called Shylock it was, tall and with a beard, a knife in one hand holding them at bay and a pair of taunting scales in the other, grey eyes set hard on a pack of getts like Mr. Jones, the same puffed-up bastards after a poor old man that were after Brian--and all because he wanted some money back he'd lent them. Old Jones was against Shylock--you could tell from the way he read the story--and Shylock was good then because of it, a poor old--Jew was it?--holding the world's scorn from him,