ts of the oldest inhabitants are sacred and honourable, requiring
to be chronicled.

"I am glad to see you, sir," I said. "I would offer you a chair,
but--you see, sir," I went on, "I have lived in Montopolis only three
weeks, and I have not met many of our citizens." I turned a doubtful
eye upon his dust-stained shoes, and concluded with a newspaper
phrase, "I suppose that you reside in our midst?"

My visitor fumbled in his raiment, drew forth a soiled card, and
handed it to me. Upon it was written, in plain but unsteadily formed
characters, the name "Michob Ader."

"I am glad you called, Mr. Ader," I said. "As one of our older
citizens, you must view with pride the recent growth and enterprise of
Montopolis. Among other improvements, I think I can promise that the
town will now be provided with a live, enterprising newspa--"

"Do ye know the name on that card?" asked my caller, interrupting me.

"It is not a familiar one to me," I said.

Again he visited the depths of his ancient vestments. This time he
brought out a torn leaf of some book or journal, brown and flimsy with
age. The heading of the page was the _Turkish Spy_ in old-style type;
the printing upon it was this:

"There is a man come to Paris in this year 1643 who pretends to have
lived these sixteen hundred years. He says of himself that he was a
shoemaker in Jerusalem at the time of the Crucifixion; that his name
is Michob Ader; and that when Jesus, the Christian Messias, was
condemned by Pontius Pilate, the Roman president, he paused to rest
while bearing his cross to the place of crucifixion before the door of
Michob Ader. The shoemaker struck Jesus with his fist, saying: 'Go;
why tarriest thou?' The Messias answered him: 'I indeed am going; but
thou shalt tarry until I come'; thereby condemning him to live until
the day of judgment. He lives forever, but at the end of every hundred
years he falls into a fit or trance, on recovering from which he finds
himself in the same state of youth in which he was when Jesus
suffered, being then about thirty years of age.

"Such is the story of the Wandering Jew, as told by Michob Ader, who
relates--" Here the printing ended.

I must have muttered aloud something to myself about the Wandering
Jew, for the old man spake up, bitterly and loudly.

"'Tis a lie," said he, "like nine tenths of what ye call history. 'Tis
a Gentile I am, and no Jew. I am after footing it out of Jerusalem,
my son; but if that ma