Chapter V (2)

You see, Sarah’s eyes were brown and Erzik’s were blue, and they sat side by side in the sweatshop where the sewing machines whirred and buzzed and droned and hummed. And side by side they had sat for almost a year, speaking hardly a dozen words a day, for they are silent people, those Eastern Jews, and each time that Sarah looked up she could see that Erzik’s eyes were blue, and she saw a light in them that brought the blood to her cheeks and filled her with a strange joy and a resolve not to look up again.

And Erzik, wondering at the gladness in his heart, would smile, whereat the sweater would frown, and the machines would whirr and buzz and drone and hum more briskly.

It was the fault of the black thread—or was it the white thread? One of them, at least, had become entangled in the bobbin of Sarah’s sewing machine, and in disentangling it the needle’s point pierced her skin, drawing—a tiny drop of blood. Erzik turned pale, and tearing a strip from his handkerchief—a piece of extravagance which exasperated the sweater beyond all bounds—hastened to bind it around the wound. Then Sarah laughed, and Erzik laughed, too, and of course he must hold the finger close to his eyes to adjust the bandage, and then, before the whole room, he kissed her hand. Then she slapped him upon one cheek, whereupon he quickly offered the other, and they laughed, and all the room laughed, save Esther, whose face was always white and pinched.

Is it not a foolish story? That very night Erzik told Sarah that he loved her, and she cried and told him she loved him, and then he cried, and they both were happy. And on the next day they told the sweater that they were soon going to be married, which did not interest him at all.

It was gossip for half a day, and then it fell into the natural order of things. The machines went on whirring and buzzing and droning and humming, and Erzik and Sarah frequently looked up from their work and gazed smilingly into each other’s eyes. Of this they never tired, and through the spring their love grew stronger and deeper, and the machines in the room never ceased to sing of it; even the sparrows that perched upon the telegraph wires close by the windows chirped it all day long.

Esther grew whiter and whiter, and her face became more and more pinched. And one day she was not in her place. But neither Erzik nor Sarah missed her. Another day and another, she was absent, and on the following day they buried her. The rabbi brought a letter to Erzik.

“She said it was for your wedding.”

Carefully folded in a clean sheet of note paper lay three double eagles; it was Esther’s fortune.

_Die Liebe ist eine alte Geschichte._

Erzik and Sarah have been married a year, and they still sit side by side in the sweatshop. Spring has come again, and the sewing machines whirr and buzz and drone and hum, and through it all you can hear that foolish old song. When they look up from their work and their eyes meet, they smile. They are content with their lot in life, and they love each other.

The story runs in my head like an old song, and when the sky is blue, and the birds sing, the melody is sweet beyond all words. Sometimes, when the sky is grey and the air is heavy with a coming storm, it seems as if there is a note of sadness in the song, as if a heart were crying. But the sunshine makes it right again.

THE STORY OF SARAI

It was the idle hour of the mart, and the venders of Hester Street were busy brushing away the flies. Mother Politsky had arranged her patriarchal-looking fish for at least the twentieth time, and was wondering whether it might not be better to take them home than to wait another hour in the hope of a chance customer being attracted to her stand. Suddenly a shadow fell across the fish. She looked up and beheld a figure that looked for all the world as if it had just stepped out of the pages of the Pentateuch. The venerable grey beard, the strong aquiline nose, the grave blue eyes, and, above all, the air of unutterable wisdom, completed a picture of one of Israel’s prophets.

“God be with the Herr Rabbi!” greeted Mother Politsky.

The rabbi poked a patriarchal finger into the fish, and grunted in approbation of their firmness.

“Are they fresh?” he asked, giving no heed to her salutation.

“They were swimming in the sea this very day, Herr Rabbi. They could not be fresher if they were alive. And the price is—oh, you’ll laugh at me when I tell you—only twelve cents a pound.”

The rabbi laughed, displaying fine, wide teeth.

“Come, come, my good mother. Tell me without joking what they cost. This big one, and that little one over there.”

“But, Herr Rabbi, you surely cannot mean that that is too much! Well, well—an old friend—eleven cents, we’ll say. Will you take the big one or the little one?”

The rabbi was still smiling.

“My dear mother, you remind me of Sarai.”

“And who was she?” asked Mother Politsky with interest.

“Sarai was the beautiful daughter of the famous Rabbiner Emanuel ben Achad, who lived many hundreds of years ago. She was famed for her beauty, and likewise for her exceeding shrewdness. Yes, Sarai was very, very clever.”

“And I remind you of her? Well, well. What a beautiful thing it is to be a rabbi and know so much about the past! Come, now, I’ll say ten cents, and you can have your choice. Shall I wrap up the big——”

“This Sarai,” the rabbi went on, “had many lovers, but of them all she liked only two. One of these was the favourite of her father; the other was a poor but handsome youth who was apprenticed to a scribe. For a long time Sarai hesitated between the two. Each was handsome, each was a devoted lover, each was gifted with no ordinary intelligence, and each was brave. Yet she was undecided upon which to bestow her heart and her hand.”

The rabbi had picked up the big fish, and now paused to sniff at it.

“And what did she do?” asked Mother Politsky.

“Ten cents?” said the rabbi, and then, with a sigh, he laid down the fish, as if it were hopelessly beyond his reach.

“Nine, then, and take it, but what did Sarai do?”

The rabbi looked long and intently at the fish, and then, shaking his head sadly, resumed his narrative.

“Sarai pondered over the matter for many, many weeks, and finally decided to put them to a test. Now the name of her father’s favourite was Ezra, while the poor youth was called Joseph. ‘Father,’ she said one day, ‘what is the most difficult task that a man can be put to?’ ‘The most difficult thing that I know of,’ her father promptly replied, ‘is to grasp the real meaning of the Talmud.’

“Thereupon Sarai called Ezra and Joseph before her, and said to them: ‘He that brings to me the real meaning of the Talmud shall have my hand.’ Was that not clever of her?”

“Yes! Yes! But who brought the true answer?” asked Mother Politsky, with breathless interest. The rabbi was looking longingly at the fish.

“How much did you say?”

“Eight cents, eight cents. I don’t want any profit, but who——”

“Neither of the young men,” the rabbi went on, with his eyes still upon the fish, “knew anything about the Talmud, but Joseph, who was well versed in Hebrew, began at once to study it, wherein he had the advantage over Ezra, who knew not a word of Hebrew.”

“Poor Ezra!” murmured Mother Politsky.

“But Ezra was a shrewd young man, and, without wasting any time upon studying, he went straight to Sarai’s father and said to him: ‘Rabbi, you are the greatest scholar of the world to-day. Can you tell me the real meaning of the Talmud?’”

“Poor Joseph!” murmured Mother Politsky.

“‘My son,’ said Rabbi ben Achad, ‘all the wisdom of the human race since the days of Moses has not been able to answer that question!’”

The rabbi had taken up the big fish and the small one, and was carefully balancing them.

“Eight, you say. I know a place where I can get them——”

“Seven, then. And Joseph?”

“——for six.”

“Seven is the lowest. But Jo——”

The rabbi turned to move away.

“All right. Six cents. But finish the story. What did Joseph do?”

“Joseph studied many years and came to the same conclusion. I’ll take the small one.”

“But which of them married Sarai?”

“The story does not say. You’re sure it is fresh?”

THE AMERICANISATION OF SHADRACH COHEN

There is no set rule for the turning of the worm; most worms, however, turn unexpectedly. It was so with Shadrach Cohen.

He had two sons. One was named Abel and the other Gottlieb. They had left Russia five years before their father, had opened a store on Hester Street with the money he had given them. For reasons that only business men would understand they conducted the store in their father’s name—and, when the business began to prosper and they saw an opportunity of investing further capital in it to good advantage, they wrote to their dear father to come to this country.

“We have a nice home for you here,” they wrote. “We will live happily together.”

Shadrach came. With him he brought Marta, the serving-woman who had nursed his wife until she died, and whom, for his wife’s sake, he had taken into the household. When the ship landed he was met by two dapper-looking young men, each of whom wore a flaring necktie with a diamond in it. It took him some time to realise that these were his two sons. Abel and Gottlieb promptly threw their arms around his neck and welcomed him to the new land. Behind his head they looked at each other in dismay. In the course of five years they had forgotten that their father wore a gaberdine—the loose, baglike garment of the Russian Ghetto—and had a long, straggling grey beard and ringlets that came down over his ears—that, in short, he was a perfect type of the immigrant whose appearance they had so frequently ridiculed. Abel and Gottlieb were proud of the fact that they had become Americanised. And they frowned at Marta.

“Come, father,” they said. “Let us go to a barber, who will trim your beard and make you look more like an American. Then we will take you home with us.”

Shadrach looked from one to the other in surprise.

“My beard?” he said; “what is the matter with my beard?”

“In this city,” they explained to him, “no one wears a beard like yours except the newly landed, Russian Jews.”

Shadrach’s lips shut tightly for a moment. Then he said:

“Then I will keep my beard as it is. I am a newly landed Russian Jew.” His sons clinched their fists behind their backs and smiled at him amiably. After all, he held the purse-strings. It was best to humour him.

“What shall we do with Marta?” they asked. “We have a servant. We will not need two.”

“Marta,” said the old man, “stays with us. Let the other servant go. Come, take me home. I am getting hungry.”

They took him home, where they had prepared a feast for him. When he bade Marta sit beside him at the table Abel and Gottlieb promptly turned and looked out of the window. They felt that they could not conceal their feelings. The feast was a dismal affair. Shadrach was racking his brains to find some explanation that would account for the change that had come over his sons. They had never been demonstrative in their affection for him, and he had not looked for an effusive greeting. But he realised immediately that there was a wall between him and his sons; some change had occurred; he was distressed and puzzled. When the meal was over Shadrach donned his praying cap and began to recite the grace after meals. Abel and Gottlieb looked at each other in consternation. Would they have to go through this at every meal? Better—far better—to risk their father’s displeasure and acquaint him with the truth at once. When it came to the response Shadrach looked inquiringly at his sons. It was Abel who explained the matter:

“We—er—have grown out of—er—that is—er—done away with—er—sort of fallen into the habit, don’t you know, of leaving out the prayer at meals. It’s not quite American!”

Shadrach looked from one to the other. Then, bowing his head, he went on with his prayer.

“My sons,” he said, when the table had been cleared. “It is wrong to omit the prayer after meals. It is part of your religion. I do not know anything about this America or its customs. But religion is the worship of Jehovah, who has chosen us as His children on earth, and that same Jehovah rules supreme over America even as He does over the country that you came from.”

Gottlieb promptly changed the subject by explaining to him how badly they needed more money in their business. Shadrach listened patiently for a while, then said:

“I am tired after my long journey. I do not understand this business that you are talking about. But you may have whatever money you need. After all, I have no one but you two.” He looked at them fondly. Then his glance fell upon the serving-woman, and he added, quickly:

“And Marta.”

“Thank God,” said Gottlieb, when their father had retired, “he does not intend to be stingy.”

“Oh, he is all right,” answered Abel. “After he gets used to things he will become Americanised like us.”

To their chagrin, however, they began to realise, after a few months, that their father was clinging to the habits and customs of his old life with a tenacity that filled them with despair. The more they urged him to abandon his ways the more eager he seemed to become to cling to them. He seemed to take no interest in their business affairs, but he responded, almost cheerfully, to all their requests for money. He began to feel that this, after all, was the only bond between him and his sons. And when they had pocketed the money, they would shake their heads and sigh.

“Ah, father, if you would only not insist upon being so old-fashioned!” Abel would say.

“And let us fix you up a bit,” Gottlieb would chime in.

“And become more progressive—like the other men of your age in this country.”

“And wear your beard shorter and trimmed differently.”

“And learn to speak English.”

Shadrach never lost his temper; never upbraided them. He would look from one to the other and keep his lips tightly pressed together. And when they had gone he would look at Marta and would say:

“Tell me what you think, Marta. Tell me what you think.”

“It is not proper for me to interfere between father and sons,” Marta would say. And Shadrach could never induce her to tell him what she thought. But he could perceive a gleam in her eyes and observed a certain nervous vigour in the way she cleaned the pots and pans for hours after these talks, that fell soothingly upon his perturbed spirit.

* * * * *

As we remarked before, there is no rule for the turning of the worm. Some worms, however, turn with a crash. It was so with Shadrach Cohen.

Gottlieb informed his father that he contemplated getting married.

“She is very beautiful,” he said. “The affair is all in the hands of the Shadchen.”

His father’s face lit up with pleasure.

“Gottlieb,” he said, holding out his hand, “God bless you! It’s the very best thing you could do. Marta, bring me my hat and coat. Come, Gottlieb. Take me to see her. I cannot wait a moment. I want to see my future daughter-in-law at once. How happy your mother would be if she were alive to-day!”

Gottlieb turned red and hung back.

“I think, father,” he said, “you had better not go just yet. Let us wait a few days until the Shadchen has made all the arrangements. She is an American girl. She—she won’t—er—understand your ways—don’t you know? And it may spoil everything.”

Crash! Marta had dropped an iron pot that she was cleaning. Shadrach was red in the face with suppressed rage.

“So!” he said. “It has come to this. You are ashamed of your father!” Then he turned to the old servant:

“Marta,” he said, “to-morrow we become Americanised—you and I.”

There was an intonation in his voice that alarmed his son.

“You are not angry——” he began, but with a fierce gesture his father cut him short.

“Not another word. To bed! Go to bed at once.”

Gottlieb was dumbfounded. With open mouth he stared at his father. He had not heard that tone since he was a little boy.

“But, father——” he began.

“Not a word. Do you hear me? Not a word will I listen to. In five minutes if you are not in bed you go out of this house. Remember, this is my house.”

Then he turned to Abel. Abel was calmly smoking a cigar.

“Throw that cigar away,” his father commanded, sternly.

Abel gasped and looked at his father in dismay.

“Marta, take that cigar out of his mouth and throw it into the fire. If he objects he goes out of the house.”

With a smile of intense delight Marta plucked the cigar from Abel’s unresisting lips, and incidentally trod heavily upon his toes. Shadrach gazed long and earnestly at his sons.

“To-morrow, my sons,” he said, slowly, “you will begin to lead a new life.”

In the morning Abel and Gottlieb, full of dread forebodings, left the house as hastily as they could. They wanted to get to the store to talk matters over. They had hardly entered the place, however, when the figure of their father loomed up in the doorway. He had never been in the place before. He looked around him with great satisfaction at the many evidences of prosperity which the place presented. When he beheld the name “Shadrach Cohen, Proprietor” over the door he chuckled. Ere his sons had recovered from the shock of his appearance a pale-faced clerk, smoking a cigarette, approached Shadrach, and in a sharp tone asked:

“Well, sir, what do you want?” Shadrach looked at him with considerable curiosity. Was he Americanised, too? The young man frowned impatiently.

“Come, come! I can’t stand here all day. Do you want anything?”

Shadrach smiled and turned to his sons.

“Send him away at once. I don’t want that kind of young man in my place.” Then turning to the young man, upon whom the light of revelation had quickly dawned, he said, sternly:

“Young man, whenever you address a person who is older than you, do it respectfully. Honour your father and your mother. Now go away as fast as you can. I don’t like you.”

“But, father,” interposed Gottlieb, “we must have someone to do his work.”

“Dear me,” said Shadrach, “is that so? Then, for the present, you will do it. And that young man over there—what does he do?”

“He is also a salesman.”

“Let him go. Abel will take his place.”

“But, father, who is to manage the store? Who will see that the work is properly done?”

“I will,” said the father. “Now, let us have no more talking. Get to work.”

Crestfallen, miserable, and crushed in spirit, Abel and Gottlieb began their humble work while their father entered upon the task of familiarising himself with the details of the business. And even before the day’s work was done he came to his sons with a frown of intense disgust.

“Bah!” he exclaimed. “It is just as I expected. You have both been making as complete a mess of this business as you could without ruining it. What you both lack is sense. If becoming Americanised means becoming stupid, I must congratulate you upon the thoroughness of your work. To-morrow I shall hire a manager to run this store. He will arrange your hours of work. He will also pay you what you are worth. Not a cent more. How late have you been keeping this store open?”

“Until six o’clock,” said Abel.

“H’m! Well, beginning to-day, you both will stay here until eight o’clock. Then one of you can go. The other will stay until ten. You can take turns. I will have Marta send you some supper.”

* * * * *

To the amazement of Abel and Gottlieb the business of Shadrach Cohen began to grow. Slowly it dawned upon them that in the mercantile realm they were as children compared with their father. His was the true money-maker spirit; there was something wonderful in the swiftness with which he grasped the most intricate phases of trade; and where experience failed him some instinct seemed to guide him aright. And gradually, as the business of Shadrach Cohen increased, and even the sons saw vistas of prosperity beyond their wildest dreams, they began to look upon their father with increasing respect. What they had refused to the integrity of his character, to the nobility of his heart, they promptly yielded to the shrewdness of his brain. The sons of Shadrach Cohen became proud of their father. He, too, was slowly undergoing a change. A new life was unfolding itself before his eyes, he became broader-minded, more tolerant, and, above all, more flexible in his tenets. Contact with the outer world had quickly impressed him with the vast differences between his present surroundings and his old life in Russia. The charm of American life, of liberty, of democracy, appealed to him strongly. As the field of his business operations widened he came more and more in contact with American business men, from whom he learned many things—principally the faculty of adaptability. And as his sons began to perceive that all these business men whom, in former days, they had looked upon with feelings akin to reverence, seemed to show to their father an amount of deference and respect which they had never evinced toward the sons, their admiration for their father increased.

And yet it was the same Shadrach Cohen.

From that explosive moment when he had rebelled against his sons he demanded from them implicit obedience and profound respect. Upon that point he was stern and unyielding. Moreover, he insisted upon a strict observance of every tenet of their religion. This, at first, was the bitterest pill of all. But they soon became accustomed to it. When life is light and free from care, religion is quick to fly; but when the sky grows dark and life becomes earnest, and we feel its burden growing heavy upon our shoulders, then we welcome the consolation that religion brings, and we cling to it. And Shadrach Cohen had taught his sons that life was earnest. They were earning their bread by the sweat of their brow. No prisoner, with chain and ball, was subjected to closer supervision by his keeper than were Gottlieb and Abel.

“You have been living upon my charity,” their father said to them: “I will teach you how to earn your own living.”

And he taught them. And with the lesson they learned many things; learned the value of discipline, learned the beauty of filial reverence, learned the severe joy of the earnest life.

One day Gottlieb said to his father:

“May I bring Miriam to supper to-night? I am anxious that you should see her.”

Shadrach turned his face away so that Gottlieb might not see the joy that beamed in his eyes.

“Yes, my son,” he answered. “I, too, am anxious to see if she is worthy of you.”

Miriam came, and in a stiff, embarrassed manner Gottlieb presented her to his father. The girl looked in surprise at the venerable figure that stood before her—a picture of a patriarch from the Pentateuch, with a long, straggling beard, and ringlets of hair falling over the ears, and clad in the long gaberdine of the Russian Ghettos. And she saw a pair of grey eyes bent keenly upon her—eyes of shrewdness, but soft and tender as a woman’s—the eyes of a strong man with a kind heart. Impulsively she ran toward him and seized his hands. And, with a smile upon her lips, she said:

“Will you not give me your blessing?”

* * * * *

When the evening meal had ended, Shadrach donned his praying cap, and with bowed head intoned the grace after meals:

“We will bless Him from whose wealth we have eaten!” And in fervent tones rose from Gottlieb’s lips the response:

“Blessed be He!”

HANNUKAH LIGHTS

Somewhere in transit he had lost all his letters, papers, credentials, cards—all belongings, in fact, that might have established his identity. He said he was David Parnes, and that he had come from Pesth. And, as he was tall and straight, with fine black eyes and curling black hair, a somewhat dashing presence, and the most charming manners, he soon made friends, particularly among the women, for, in Houston Street, as elsewhere, the fair sex rarely looks behind a pleasing personality for credentials of character.

Eulie, the waitress and maid-of-all-work in Weiss’s coffee house, felt the blood surge to her face when first she beheld him, and when, for the first time, he gave her _Trinkgeld_ and a smile, all the blood rushed back to her heart. After that Eulie was his slave. All day long she waited for him to come. When he had gone the place seemed dark, and the music of the gipsy band grated upon her. While he was there—usually sitting alone and sipping coffee and staring into vacancy like a man whose mind is busy with many schemes—her heart beat faster, and life seemed glad. Eulie was plain—painfully plain—but there was a charm about her that had won the admiration of many of the patrons of the place, some of whom had even offered her marriage. But she had only laughed, and had declared that she would never marry.

Sometimes these incidents came to the ear of Esther, the daughter of the proprietor, and made her heart burn; for Esther was fair to look upon, and yet had reached and passed her twentieth year without a single offer of marriage. With all her beauty the girl was absolutely devoid of charm; there was something even in the tone of her voice that repelled men; probably a reflection of her arrogance and selfishness. Then, one day, Eulie beheld her talking to David; saw that her face was animated, and that David’s eyes were fastened intently upon her. In Esther’s eyes she read that story which, between woman and woman, is an open book. When her work was finished that night Eulie hastened to her room, and, throwing herself upon the bed, burst into a flood of weeping.

The affair progressed rapidly. There were times when Eulie, after serving him with coffee, would stand silently behind David, gazing upon him intently, yearning to throw her arms around that curly head and cry, “I love you! I am your slave!” But these became rarer and rarer, for Esther demanded more and more of his presence, and it was seldom that he sat alone in the coffee house. Eulie had never seen him manifest any of those lover-like demonstrations toward Esther that might have been expected under the circumstances, but she attributed this to his pride. Probably, she thought, when they were alone, beyond the reach of prying eyes, he kissed her and caressed her to her heart’s content. The thought of it wore on her spirit. And when, one day, Esther told her that they were to be married at the end of a month Eulie turned pale and trembled, and then hurried to her room.

A few days after this announcement had been publicly made, and congratulations had begun to pour in from the many patrons of the establishment, who had known Esther from childhood, Eulie observed a change in David’s demeanour. He seemed suddenly to have become worried. He would come to the coffee house late at night, after Esther had retired, and sit alone over his coffee, brooding. Eulie’s duties permitted her to leave at nine o’clock, but if David had not come at that hour, she continued to work, even until midnight, the closing time, in the hope that she would see him enter. He rarely spoke to her, rarely noticed her, in fact, but Eulie, in her heart, had established an intimacy between them. An intimacy? Rather a world of love and devotion, in which, alas! she lived alone with a shadow.

She was quick to see the change that had come over him, and she longed to speak to him—to implore him to confide in her. Was it money? She had led a frugal life, and had saved the greater part of her earnings for years. She would not trust her pittance to the banks. It was all in a trunk in her room, and he was welcome to it. Was it service that he needed? She was a slave ready to do his bidding. The tears came into her eyes to see that face upon which light and laughter sat so gracefully now cast down with gloom. But David worried on in silence, and left the place without a word.

Then, for several days, he did not come at all. Esther told her that he had been called out of town on business.

“Did—did he not look worried when last you saw him?” Eulie asked, timidly. Esther’s eyes opened in surprise.

“Why, no. I did not notice that he looked any different.”

Eulie sighed. That night there came to one of her tables a brisk, sharp-eyed little man, whose manner and accent betokened a new arrival from Hungary. He bowed politely to Eulie, praised her skill in waiting upon him, and complimented her upon her hair, which she wore flat upon her head after the fashion of the peasant girls of Hungary. He gave her liberal _Trinkgeld_, and bowed courteously when he departed. The next evening he returned and greeted her as a newly made acquaintance. They chatted pleasantly a while—he had much news from the mother country that interested her—and then, quite by-the-way—Did she happen to know a young man, tall and straight—quite good-looking, black eyes and curling hair, a very pleasant chap, extremely popular with the girls? A friend had told him that he would find this young man somewhere in the Hungarian colony—did she know anyone who answered that description? His eyes were turned from her—he was watching the gipsies playing—it was all quite casual.

It is said that love creates a sixth sense. In a flash Eulie’s whole nature shrank from this man, and stood at arms ready for battle. This was no friend in search of a boon companion. This was an enemy—a mortal enemy of David. She felt it, knew it as positively as if she had seen him fly at David’s throat. Fortunately the man had not observed the pallor that overspread her countenance.

“No. I do not remember having seen such a man. He never comes here, or I would have remembered him.”

That night was the beginning of the feast of Hanukkah—the only feast at which the penitential psalms are omitted, lest they might mar the joyfulness of the celebration. Esther was away, and it was Eulie’s duty to light the candles in the living room overhead. The sun was fast sinking, but the light of day still lingered in the sky. Eulie felt that it might be sacrilegious to hasten so holy a function, but a sudden nervous dread had come over her, and there was fear in her heart.

“I will light the candles now,” she said. “Then I will wait outside in the street, and if he comes I will warn him.”

Swiftly, lightly, she sped up the stairs to the living room. The door was open, and the light from the hall lamp shone dimly into the furthest corner, where, with his back turned to the door, stood, or rather knelt, David Parnes before a desk in which the coffee house proprietor kept his money. Eulie recoiled, shocked, horrified. Then, swift as a lightning stroke came full revelation. He was a thief! She had always suspected something like that. And she loved him—adored him more than ever at this moment! Eulie was an honest girl, an honest peasant girl, descended from a long line of peasants, all as honest as the day. But the world was against the man she loved. Honesty? To the winds with honesty! With a rush she was at his side.

“Listen!” she whispered, excitedly. “There is the key. Over there on the wall. The money is in the top drawer. Take it and fly. There is a man below from Hungary looking for you. I told him you did not come here. You can get away before he finds you. I will never tell. I swear I will never tell. Quick! You must fly!”

The young man had turned quickly when she entered, but after that he had not moved. He was still upon one knee. Had a thunderbolt fallen from the ceiling he could not have been more astonished. He looked at Eulie in bewilderment.

“Wait!” she cried. “I will be back in a second. Open the desk and take all the money, and then I will be back.”

It seemed to him but an instant—Eulie had gone and had returned. He was still kneeling—almost petrified with amazement. Eulie held out an old, stained, leather pocketbook.

“It is all mine,” she whispered. “Take it. Run! You must not wait!”

Slowly he rose to his feet. Once or twice he passed his hand over his eyes as if he feared he was dreaming.

“Eulie?”

There was a world of incredulity, of bewilderment, of questioning in his voice.

“Oh, do not stay!” cried the poor girl. “They will be looking for you. Go, before it is too late. Go far away. They will never find you.”

“I do not understand,” he said, slowly. “What does it mean?”

A sudden weakness overcame Eulie, and she burst into tears. He advanced toward her.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. Eulie could not speak. Her frame was convulsed with sobbing; the tears were streaming down her cheeks; David, open-mouthed, stood gazing at her. The pocketbook had fallen from her hand, and a small heap of bank notes had slipped from it. David looked at them; then at her. Slowly he advanced to where she stood. As gently as he could he drew her hands from her face and turned her head toward the light in the hall.

“Eulie?”

The blood coursed to her cheeks. Her gaze fell. She tore herself from his clasp.

“For God’s sake, go!” she cried. He restored the money to the pocketbook and placed it in her hands. Then he started toward the door.

“You will not take it?” she asked, piteously. “It is all mine. I give it to you freely. Borrow it if you like. Some day you can send it back.”

He shook his head, stood irresolute for a moment, then returned to her.

“Eulie,” he whispered. “My mother is dead. But in heaven she is blessing you!”

Then he kissed her upon the forehead and walked determinedly out of the room. Eulie stood swaying to and fro, for a moment, then tottered and fell to the floor. David stood on the stairs a full minute, breathing heavily, like a man who has been running. Then his teeth clicked tightly together, he drew a long breath, walked briskly down the steps, and strode into the brilliantly lighted coffee house.

He knew the man at once. He had never seen him before, but unerring instinct pointed out his pursuer. He walked straight toward him.

“When do we start for Pesth?” he asked.

The man eyed him narrowly, gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment, then his face lit up.

“By the next steamer, if you like,” was all he said.

David nodded.

“Good,” he said. Then, after a moment’s hesitation:

“Will you come upstairs with me for a moment?”

Without a word the man accompanied him. They found Eulie, pale as a ghost, standing at the mantel, lighting the Hannukah candles. When she beheld David with his captor, she screamed, and would have fallen had not David sprung forward and caught her in his arms.

“Listen,” he said, speaking rapidly. “I am going back. My name is not David Parnes. I will write in a few days and tell you everything. They will send me to prison. In two or three years I shall be free. Then I am coming back for you.”

He held her in his arms for one brief moment, kissed her again on the forehead, and was gone. Then the tears came afresh to Eulie’s eyes. But through her veins coursed a tumult of joy.

A SWALLOW-TAILER FOR TWO

“Isidore? Bah! Never again do I want dot name to hear!

“Isidore? A loafer he iss! Sure! Ve vas friends vunce, unt don’t I know vot a loafer he iss? Ven a man iss a loafer nobody knows it better as his best friend.

“Don’t you remember by der night uf der two Purim balls? Vot? No? Yes! Dere vas two Purim balls by der same night; der one vas across der street from der odder. Yes. Der one, dot vas der Montefiore Society. I vas der president. Der odder, dot vas der Baron Hirsch Literary Atzociation. Isidore vas der vice-president.

“Isidore unt I lived together. Oh, ve vas such friends! David unt Jonathan dey vas not better friends as me unt Isidore. Everyt’ing vot Isidore had could belong also to me. Unt if I had somet’ing I always told Isidore dot I had it. I did not know vot a loafer he vas.

“So it comes der day of der Montefiore ball, unt I ask Izzy if he iss going. ‘No, Moritz,’ he says, ‘I am going by der Baron Hirsch ball.’ ‘But anyway,’ I says, ‘let us go by der tailor unt hire for rent our evening-dress swallow-tails.’ ‘Sure,’ he says. Unt ve vent by der tailor’s. But dot vas such a busy times dot every tailor ve vent to said he vas so sorry but he had already hired out for rent all der swallow-tails vot he had, unt he didn’t haf no more left. Ve vent from every tailor vot ve know to every odder tailor. Der last vun he vas a smart feller. He says: ‘Gents, I got vun suit left, but it iss der only vun.’ Den Izzy unt me looked into our faces. Vot could ve do?

“‘Id iss no use,’ I says, unt Izzy says it vas no use, unt ve vas just going away, ven der smart tailor says: ‘Vy don’t you take der suit unt each take a turn to wear it?’ So Izzy says to me, ‘Moritz, dot’s a idea. You can wear der suit by der Montefiore ball, unt I can wear it by der Baron Hirsch ball. Der dancing vill be all night. You can have it from nine o’clock until it is elefen o’clock. Dot iss two hours. Den you can excuse yourself. Den I put on der suit und wear it by der Baron Hirsch ball from elefen o’clock until id iss vun o’clock in der morning. Den I excuse myself. Den, Moritz, you can haf it again by der Montefiore ball until id iss t’ree o’clock. Dot iss two more hours, unt if I want it after t’ree o’clock I can haf it for two hours more.’

“Say! Dot Izzy iss a great schemer. He has a brain like a Napoleon. He iss a loafer, but he iss a smart vun. So, anyvay, ve took der suit. Der tailor charged us two dollars—oh, he vas a skin!—unt Izzy unt I said ve would each pay half, unt ve each gave der tailor a gold watch to keep for der security uv der suit. Unt den—I remember it like if it vas yesterday—I looked into Isidore’s eye unt I said: ‘Isidore, iss it your honest plan to be fair unt square?’ Because, I vill tell you, der vas somet’ing in my heart dot vas saying, he vill play some crooked business! But Isidore held out his hand unt said, ‘Moritz, you know _me_!’ Unt I trusted him!

“So ve went to der room ve lived in unt I put der suit on. It fitted me fine. I look pretty good in a evening swallow-tail unt Isidore says I looked like a regular aritztocrat.

“‘Be careful, Moritz,’ he says, ‘unt keep der shirt clean.’ I forgot to tell you dot ve hired a shirt, too, because it vas cheaper as two shirts. ‘Come, Moritz,’ he says, ‘let us go!’ ‘Us!’ I says, astonished. ‘Are you coming by der Montefiore ball, too?’ ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘You are der president, unt you can get me in without a ticket. I don’t have to wear a swallow-tail evening dresser because I ain’d a member.’

“It took me only a second to t’ink der matter over. I am such a qvick t’inker. If he comes to my ball, I says to myself, I vill come by his! ‘Sure, Izzy,’ I says. ‘As my friend you are velcome.’ So ve vent to der Montefiore ball.

“Der moment ve got into der ballroom I seen vot a nasty disposition Isidore got. ‘Izzy,’ I says, ‘go get acqvainted mit a nice lady, unt dance unt enjoy yourself unt I vill see you again at elefen o’clock.’ ‘No, Moritz,’ he says. ‘I vill stick by you.’ I am a proud man, so I said, very dignified, ‘All right, if you vill have it so.’

“Unt Isidore stuck. Efry time I looked around me I seen his eyes keepin’ a look-out on der swallow-tail evening dress. Such big eyes Isidore had dot night! ‘Don’t vatch me like dot, Izzy,’ I said. ‘Dey vill t’ink you are a detectif, unt dot I stole somet’ing.’ Efrytime I drops a leetle tiny bit from a cigar ashes on my swallow-tail shirt Izzy comes running up mit a handkerchief unt cleans it off. Efry time I sits down on a chair Izzy comes up unt vispers in my ear, ‘Moritz, please don’t get wrinkles in der swallow-tail. Remember, I got to wear it next.’ Efry time I took a drink Moritz comes unt holds der handkerchief under der glass so dot der beer should not drop on der swallow-tail shirt. ‘Izzy,’ I says to him, ‘I am astonished.’

“So a hour vent by unt den comes in Miss Rabinowitz. Ven I see her I forget all about Isidore, unt about everyt’ing else. Oh, she is nice! I says, ‘Miss Rabinowitz, can I haf der pleasure uv der next dance?’ ‘No,’ she says, ‘I ain’d dancing to-night because my shoes hurts me. But ve can haf der pleasure of sidding out der next dance togedder.’ Den she says to her mamma, ‘Mamma, I am going to sid out der next dance mit dis gentleman friend of mine. You can go somevere else unt enjoy yourself.’ Dot gave me a idea. ‘Isidore,’ I says—Isidore was right on top uv my heels—‘gif Miss Rabinowitz’s mamma der pleasure of your company for a half-hour, like a good friend.’

“Isidore looks a million daggers in my eye, but he couldn’t say nodding.

“He had to do it. Unt I found a qviet place where it vas a little dark, unt Miss Rabinowitz sat close by me unt I vas holding her hand unt I vas saying to myself, ‘Moritz, dis is der opportunity to tell her der secret of your life—to ask her if she vill be yours! Her old man has a big factory unt owns t’ree houses!’ Unt den I looked up, unt dere vas Isidore.

“‘V’y did you leave Mrs. Rabinowitz?’ I asked. He gafe me a terrible look. ‘Moritz,’ he says, ‘Id iss elefen o’clock unt der time has come.’ ‘Vot time?’ asked Miss Rabinowitz. ‘Oh, Moritz knows vot I mean,’ he says. So I excused myself for a minute unt I vispered in Izzy’s ear, ‘Izzy,’ I says, ‘if you love me, if you are a friend of mine, if you vant to do me der greatest favour in der vorld—I ask you on my knees to gif me a extra half-hour! Dis iss der greatest moment uv my life!’ But Isidore only shooked his head. ‘Elefen o’clock,’ he said. ‘Remember der agreement!’ ‘A qvarter of a hour,’ I begged. I had tears in my eyes. But Isidore only scraped a spot off my swallow-tail shirt unt den he said, ‘Moritz, I vill tell you vot I’ll do. I vouldn’t do dis for nobody else in der, vorld except my best friend. You can wear der suit ten minutes longer for fifty cents. Does dot suit you?’ Vot could I do? I looked at him mit sorrow. ‘Isidore,’ I said, awful sad, ‘I didn’t know you could be such a loafer! But you haf der advantage. I will do it.’

“He even made me pay der fifty cents cash on der spot, unt den he vent off to a corner where he could keep his eyes on der clock unt vatch me at der same time. Dose fifty cents vas wasted. How could I ask a lady to marry me mit dem big eyes of Isidore keeping a sharp watch on der clothes I had on?

“‘Id iss no use, Miss Rabinowitz,’ I says. ‘I had a matter uv terrible importance vot I vanted to tell you, but my friend iss in great trouble, unt ven Isidore has troubles in his heart, my heart iss heavy!’ ‘Oh,’ she says, so sveet, ‘you are such a nobleman! It makes der tears come to my eyes to hear of such friendships!’

“Dot vill show you vot a prize she vas. I hated to tell her a lie, but vot could I do? So I says I haf to go out mit Izzy unt get him out of his trouble, but at der end of two hours I come back. ‘I will wait for you,’ she says. Unt den, mit a cold, murder eye, I goes to Isidore unt says to him, ‘Come, false friend! I keep der agreement!’

“So Isidore dusts off my coat unt says he found a room upstairs where ve could change der clothes. Ven ve got to der room I took der swallow-tail evening-dress coat off, unt der vest off, unt der pants off, unt der shirt off, unt I says to Isidore, ‘Dere iss not a spot on dem! I shall expect you to gif dem back to me in der same condition ven der two hours iss up. Remember dot!’ Unt den a horrible idea comes into my head. ‘Vot am I going to wear?’ I says. ‘I don’t know,’ says Isidore. He had already put der pants on. ‘Unt I don’t care,’ he says. ‘But if you vant to put my clothes on, for friendship’s sake I lend dem to you.’

“You know how little unt fat dot Isidore iss. Unt you see how tall unt skinny I am. But vot could I do? If I vent home to put on my own clothes I know it would be good-bye Isidore unt der swallow-tail evening suit. I would never see dem again. I couldn’t trust dot false face. ‘Moritz,’ I says to myself, ‘don’d leave dot swallow-tailer out uv your sight. No matter how foolish you look in Isidore’s short pants, put dem on. You aint a member uv der Baron Hirsch Literary Atzociation. You don’d care if your appearances iss against you. Stick to Isidore!’ So I put on his old suit. My! It vas so shabby after dot fine swallow-tailer! Unt I felt so foolish! But, anyvay, dere vas vun satisfaction. Der swallow-tailer didn’t fit Isidore a bit. He had to roll der pants up in der bottom. Unt der shirt vouldn’t keep shut in front—he vas so fat—unt you could see his undershirt. I nearly laughed—he looked so foolish. But I didn’t say anyt’ing—nefer again I vould haf no jokes mit Isidore. Only dot vun night—unt after dot our friendships vas finished.

“So ve vent to der Baron Hirsch’s across der street. Ven ve got by der door Isidore asked me, astonished-like, ‘Haf you got a ticket, Moritz?’ ‘No,’ I says, ‘but you are der vice-president, unt you can pass in your friend.’ But Isidore shooked his head. ‘Der rules,’ he said, ‘uv der Baron Hirsch Literary Atzociation is different from der rules uv der Montefiore Society. Efrybody vot ain’d a member has got to pay.’

“Say, vasn’t dot a nasty vun, vot? But vot could I do? It cost me a qvarter, but I paid it. Unt as soon as ve got in by der ballroom Isidore got fresh. ‘Moritz,’ he says, ‘ve vill let gone-bys be gone-bys, unt no monkey business. I vill introduce you to a nice young lady vot got a rich uncle, unt you can sit unt talk mit her while I go unt haf a good time. At vun o’clock sharp I vill come back unt keep der agreement.’

“‘Isidore,’ I says, awful proud, ‘vit your nice young ladies I vill got nodding to do. But to show you dot I ain’d no loafer I vill sit out in der hall unt trust you.’

“So I took a seat all by myself. My! I felt so foolish in Izzy’s clothes! Unt Izzy vent inside by der wine-room, where dey was all drinking beer. ‘Moritz,’ I says to myself, ‘you make a mistake to haf so much trust in dot false face. Maybe he iss getting spots on der shirt. Maybe he is spilling beer on der swallow-tailer. He iss not der kind uv a man to take good care vit a evening dresser. ‘Moritz,’ I says it to myself, ‘be suspicious!’ Unt dot made me so nervous dot I couldn’t sit still. So I vent unt took a peek into der wine-room.

“Mein Gott, I nearly vent crazy! Dere vas dot loafer mit a big beer spot on my shirt in der front, unt drinking a glass of beer unt all der foam dropping in big, terrible drops on der pants uv der swallow-tailer. I vent straight to his face unt said, ‘Loafer, der agreement is broke. You haf got spots on it. You are a false vun!’ Unt den Isidore—loafer vot he iss—punched me vun right on der nose. Vot could I do? He vas der commencer. I vas so excited dot I couldn’t say nodding. I punched him vun back unt den ve rolled on der floor.

“Ve punched like regular prize-fighters. I done my best to keep der swallow-tailer clean, unt Izzy done der best to keep his suit vot I had on clean, but dere vas a lot of beer on der floor unt ven der committee come unt put us out in der street—my! ve looked terrible! But nobody could make no more monkey business vit me dat night. ‘Izzy,’ I says—I vas holding him in der neck—‘take dot evening dresser off or else gif up all hopes!’ I vas a desperate character, unt he could read it in der tone uv my voice. He took der swallow-tailer off—right out on der sidewalk uv der street. Den I put it on unt I vas getting all dressed while he vas standing in his underclothes, trying to insult me. Unt just ven I got all dressed unt he vas standing mit der pants in his hands calling me names vot I didn’t pay no attention to, but vot I vill get revenge for some time, dere comes up a p’liceman. Ve both seen him together, but I vas a qvicker t’inker as Isidore, so I says, ‘Mister P’liceman, dis man iss calling me names.’ He vas a Irisher, dot p’liceman, unt he hit Izzy vun mit his club, unt says, ‘Vot do you mean by comin’ in der street mitout your clothes on? You are a prisoner!’ So I says, ‘Good-night, Isidore!’ unt I run across der street to der Montefiore ball. Dey all looked at me ven I got in like if dey wanted to talk to me, but I vas t’inking only uv Miss Rabinowitz. I found her by her mamma.

“‘Miss Rabinowitz,’ I says, ‘I haf kept my word. I promised to come back, unt here I am!’ She gafe me a look vot nearly broked my heart. ‘You are a drunker,’ she says.

“‘Miss Rabinowitz,’ I says, ‘dem iss hard words.’ ‘Go away,’ she says. ‘You look like a loafer. Instead of helping your friend you haf been drinking.’ Den her mamma gafe me a look unt says, ‘Drunken loafer, go ‘way from my daughter or I will call der police.’