been, nor anything else of the
adventure. I knew she would not have understood it. But I did. And, boy
as I was, I knew now that I needed some Faith, some link to the company
and comfort of God--and that, sooner or later, as Jew or Christian, I
must seek and find that link.

But I knew, too, that my antipathy to my own people had become
deep-seated--had grown to be part of my whole life's code.

IV

THE BOY AND THE SCHOOL

High school's terrors developed for me into a more personal terror of
that young tough, Jim Geoghen. A thorough bully, he made me feel always
that he was aware of my religion, that he could at any moment disclose
it to the rest of my classmates and make me the subject of their taunts.
No doubt, they all knew as well as he that I was a Jew--but, for the
most part, they paid little attention to that fact. A large number of
them were Jews themselves: bright-eyed, poorly-dressed little fellows
who led the class in studies, but who mingled little with any other
element.

Something stronger than myself made me take up a half-hearted
companionship with these Jewish boys. I did not want to: I dreaded being
one of them--and yet, for all my aunt's sneers and warnings, and my own
perverted pride, I always felt more comfortable with them--more as if,
in walking home with one of them after school, instead of with some
Christian boy, I was where I belonged. I know it was only
self-consciousness that gave me this feeling--but after all, comfort
must play a big part in our companionships.

Geoghen, with his towering, menacing form, his dull, animal's face, his
swinging crutch, his mysterious scapular, haunted me continuously. I
remember distinctly dreaming of him once or twice at night--and that he
stood over my bedside, in those dreams, with his crutch upraised to
strike, and his little leather scapular writhing and hissing like a
coiled snake.

One day he did strike me. It was during the noon recess when a group of
us were in the asphalted yard, eating our lunches. Mine was always an
elaborate package of dainties, wrapped in much tissue paper and doilies.
Geoghen, on the other hand, had just a chunk of rye bread, covered over
with a slice of ham. His glance, long and greedy, betrayed how envious
of me he was.

"Eat ham?" he asked with a snicker.

He did not wait for an answer, but crammed a few shreds of it towards my
mouth, his dirty fingers striking my teeth. I jumped away from him and
he fo