ked Cohen, who supplied
the local trade besides selling retail. "You might have complained,
instead of taking your custom out of the house. Believe me, I don't
make a treasure heap out of it. One has to be up at Euston to meet the
trains in the middle of the night, and the competition is so
cut-throat that one has to sell at eighteen pence a barn gallon. And
on Sabbath one earns nothing at all. And then the analyst comes poking
his nose into the milk."

"You see--my wife--my wife--is ill," stammered Zussmann. "So she
doesn't drink it."

"Hum!" said Cohen. "Well, _you_ might oblige me then. I have so much
left over every day, it makes my reputation turn quite sour. Do, do me
a favor and let me send you up a can of the leavings every night. For
nothing, of course; would I talk business on the Sabbath? I don't like
to be seen pouring it away. It would pay me to pay _you_ a penny a
pint," he wound up emphatically.

Zussmann accepted unsuspiciously, grateful to Providence for enabling
him to benefit at once himself and his neighbor. He bore a can
upstairs now and explained the situation to the shrewder Hulda, who,
however, said nothing but, "You see the Idea commences to work. When
the book first came out, didn't he--though he sells secretly to the
trade on Sabbath mornings--call you an Epicurean?"

"Worse," said Zussmann joyously, with a flash of recollection.

He went out again, lightened and exalted. "Yes, the Idea works," he
said, as he came out into the gray street. "The Brotherhood of the
Peoples will come, not in my time, but it will come." And he murmured
again the Hebrew aspiration: "In that day shall God be One and His
name One."

"Whoa, where's your ---- eyes?"

Awakened by the oath, he just got out of the way of a huge Flemish
dray-horse dragging a brewer's cart. Three ragged Irish urchins, who
had been buffeting each other with whirling hats knotted into the ends
of dingy handkerchiefs, relaxed their enmities in a common rush for
the projecting ladder behind the dray and collided with Zussmann on
the way. A one-legged, misery-eyed hunchback offered him penny
diaries. He shook his head in impotent pity, and passed on, pondering.

"In time God will make the crooked straight," he thought.

Jews with tall black hats and badly made frock-coats slouched along,
their shoulders bent. Wives stood at the open doors of the old houses,
some in Sabbath finery, some flaunting irreligiously their every-day
shabbine