He had planted himself like a footpad at the door of his old master to rob him of his trade and living; and day by day he counted the customers passing in and out of the old shop, but none came his way.

As he stared across the street at his rival's shop, his face changed; it was like a hawk's, threatening and predatory, indifferent to the agony of the downy breast and fluttering wings that it is about to strike.
It maddened him to see the stream of people pass his shop with indifference, as if it were none of their business whether he lived or starved.

The memory of his boyish days returned to him, when every man's hand was against him, and he took food and shelter with the craft of an old soldier in hostile country.

Even the shop which he had furnished and laid out with such loving care, seemed a cunning trap to devour his precious sovereigns week by week.
True, he had drawn some custom, but it was of the worst sort--that of the unprincipled rogues who fatten upon tradesmen till the back of their credit is broken, and then transfer their sinister custom to another.

Jonah recognized them with a grim smile, but he had taken their work, glad of something to do, although he would never see the colour of their money.
Meanwhile the weeks ran into a month, and Jonah had not paid expenses.
He could hold out for three months according to his calculation, but he saw the end rapidly approaching, when he must retire covered with ignominious defeat.