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photograph of a man which hung in a massive oak frame above the bench
where Old Hans rolled cigars into shape. The photograph was old and
faded, and the written inscription beneath it was scarcely legible.
The gaze of the Young Comrade was wistful and reverent.

"Tell me about _him_, Hans," he said at last.

Old Hans stopped humming and looked at the Young Comrade. Then his
eyes wandered to the portrait and rested upon it in a gaze that was
likewise full of tender reverence.

Neither spoke again for several seconds and only the monotonous
ticking of the clock upon the wall broke the oppressive silence.

"Ach! he was a wonderful man, my comrade," said Old Hans at length.

"Yes, yes, he was a wonderful man--one of the most wonderful men that
ever lived," responded the Young Comrade in a voice that was vibrant
with religious enthusiasm.

Both were silent again for a moment and then the Young Comrade
continued: "Yes, Marx was a wonderful man, Hans. And you knew him--saw
him smile--heard him speak--clasped his hand--called him comrade and
friend!"

"Aye, many times, many times," answered Old Hans, nodding. "Hundreds
of times did we smoke and drink together--me and him."

"Ah, that was a glorious privilege, Hans," said the Young Comrade
fervently. "To hear him speak and touch his hand--the hand that wrote
such great truths for the poor working people--I would have gladly
died, Hans. Why, even when I touch your hand now, and think that it
held _his_ hand so often, I feel big--strong--inspired."

"Ach, but my poor old hand is nothing," answered Old Hans with a
deprecating smile. "Touching the hand of such a man matters nothing at
all, for genius is not contagious like the smallpox," he added.

"But tell me about him, Hans," pleaded the Young Comrade again. "Tell
me how he looked and spoke--tell me everything."

"Well, you see, we played together as boys in the Old Country, in
Treves. Many a time did we fight then! Once he punched my eye and made
it swell up so that I could hardly see at all, but I punched his nose
and made it bleed like--well, like a pig."

"What! you made him _bleed_?"

"Ach! that was not much; all boys fight so."

"Well?"

"My father was a shoemaker, you see, and we lived not far away from
where Karl's people lived. Many a time my father sent me to their
house--on the Bruckergrasse--with mended shoes. Then I would see Karl,
who was just as big as I was, but not so old by a year. Such a