A Fair Jewess. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

dozen persons or so he encountered as he walked toward the sea. He was scarcely fit for the task he had undertaken, but so intent was he upon his merciful mission that he bestowed no thought upon himself. The nipping air aggravating the cough from which he was suffering, he kept his mouth closed as a protection, and peered anxiously before him for some signs of the woman he was pursuing. A man walked briskly and cheerily toward him, puffing at a large and fragrant cigar, and stamping his feet sturdily into the snow. This man wore a demonstratively furred overcoat; his hands were gloved in fur; his boots were thick and substantial; and in the independent assertion that he was at peace with the world, and on exceedingly good terms with himself, he hummed the words, in Italian, of the jewel song in "Faust" every time he removed the cigar from his lips. Although it was but a humming reminiscence of the famous and beautiful number, his faint rendering of it was absolutely faultless, and proved him to be a man of refined musicianly taste, quite out of keeping with his demonstratively furred overcoat. Music, however, was not his profession. The instincts of his race had welded the divine art into his soul, and the instincts of his race had made him-a pawnbroker. Singular conjunction of qualities-the music of the celestial spheres and fourpence in the pound a month! A vulgar occupation, that of a pawnbroker, which high-toned gentlemen and mortals of aristocratic birth regard with scorn and contempt. But the last vulgar and debasing music-hall ditty which was caroled with delight by the majority of these gilded beings of a higher social grade never found lodgment in the soul of Mr. Moss, which, despite that he devoted his business hours to the lending of insignificant sums of money upon any small articles which were submitted to his judgment across the dark counter of his pawnbroking establishment, was attuned to a far loftier height than theirs in the divine realms of song. Puff, puff, puff at his cigar, the curling wreaths from which were whirled into threads of fantastic confusion by the gusts of wind, or hung in faint gray curls of beauty during a lull. The starry gleam was transferred from the lips to the fur-covered hand:

      "E' strano poter il viso suo veder;

      Ah! mi posso guardar mi pospo rimirar.

      Di, sei tu? Margherita!

      Di, sei tu? Dimmi su!

      Dimmi su, dì su, dì su, dì su presto!"

      From hand to lips the starry gleam, and the soul of Mr. Moss followed the air as he puffed his weed. The pawnbroker broke into ecstasy. From lips to hand again the starry light, and his voice grew rapturous:

      "Ceil! E come una man

      Che sul baccio mi posa!

      Ah! Io rido in poter

      Me stessa qui veder!"

      The last trill brought him close to Dr. Spenlove.

      "Friend, friend!" cried the doctor, "a word with you, for charity's sake."

      Mr. Moss did not disregard the appeal. Slipping off his right glove, and thereby displaying two fingers decorated with diamond rings, he fished a couple of coppers from a capacious pocket, and thrust them into Dr. Spenlove's outstretched palm. Dr. Spenlove caught his hand and said:

      "No, no, it is not for that. Will you kindly tell me-"

      "Why," interrupted Mr. Moss, "it is Dr. Spenlove!"

      "Mr. Moss," said Dr. Spenlove, with a sigh of relief, "I am glad it is you-I am glad it is you."

      "Not gladder than I am," responded Mr. Moss jovially. "Even in weather like this I shouldn't care to be anybody else but myself."

      This feeble attempt at humor was lost upon Dr. Spenlove.

      "You have come from the direction I am taking, and you may have seen a person I am looking for-a woman with a baby in her arms-a poor woman, Mr. Moss, whom I am most anxious to find."

      "I've come from the Hard, but I took no account of the people I passed. A man has enough to do to look after himself, with the snow making icicles in his hair, and the wind trying to bite his nose off his face. The first law of nature, you know, doctor, is-"

      "Humanity," interrupted Dr. Spenlove.

      "No, no, doctor," corrected Mr. Moss; "number one's the first law-number one, number one."

      "You did not meet the woman, then?"

      "Not to notice her. You've a bad cough, doctor; you'll have to take some of your own medicine." He laughed. "Standing here is enough to freeze one."

      "I am sorry I troubled you," said Dr. Spenlove. "Good-night."

      He was moving away when Mr. Moss detained him.

      "But look here, doctor, you're not fit to be tramping the streets in this storm; you ought to be snuggled up between the blankets. Come home with me, and Mrs. Moss shall make you a hot grog."

      Dr. Spenlove shook his head and passed on. Mr. Moss gazed at the retreating figure, his thoughts commingling.

      "A charitable man, the good doctor, a large-hearted gentleman. 'Tardi si fa-' And poor as a church mouse. What woman is he running after? Mrs. Moss would give her a piece of her mind for taking out a baby on such a night. Too bad to let him go alone, but Mrs. Moss will be waiting up for me. She won't mind when I tell her. I've a good mind to- Yes, I will."

      And after the doctor went Mr. Moss, and caught up to him.

      "Doctor, can I be of any assistance to you?"

      "I shall be glad of your help," said Dr. Spenlove eagerly. "I'm rather worn out-I have had a hard day."

      "It's a trying life, the life of a doctor," said Mr. Moss sympathetically as they walked slowly on. "We were talking of it at home only a month ago when we were discussing what we should put Michael to-our eldest boy, doctor."

      "You have a large family," observed Dr. Spenlove.

      "Not too large," said Mr. Moss cheerfully. "Only eleven. My mother had twenty-five, and I've a sister with eighteen. Our youngest-what a rogue he is, doctor-is eight months; our eldest, Michael, is seventeen next birthday. Schooldays over, he buckles to for work. We had a family council to decide what he should be. We discussed all the professions, and reduced them to two-doctor, stockbroker. Michael had a leaning to be a doctor, that's why we kept it in for discussion, and we succeeded in arguing him out of it. Your time's not your own, you see. Called up at all hours of the night and in all weathers; go to a dinner party, and dragged away before it's half over; obliged to leave the best behind you; can't enjoy a game of cards or billiards. You've got a little bet on, perhaps, or you're playing for points, and you're just winning when it's, 'Doctor, you must come at once; so and so's dying.' What's the consequence? You make a miscue, or you revoke, and you lose your money. If you're married you're worse off than if you're single; you haven't any comfort of your life. 'No, no, Michael,' says I, 'no doctoring. Stockbroking-that's what you'll go for.' And that's what he is going for. Most of our people, doctor, are lucky in their children; they don't forget to honor their father and their mother that their days may be long in the land, and so on. There's big fish on the Stock Exchange, and they're worth trying for. What's the use of sprats? It takes a hundred to fill a dish. Catch one salmon and your dish is filled. A grand fish, doctor, a grand fish! What to do with our sons? Why, put them where they can make money. We know what we're about. There's no brain in the world to compare with ours, and that's no boast, let me tell you. Take your strikes now-a strike of bricklayers for a rise of twopence per day in their wages. How many of our race among the strikers? Not one. Did you ever see a Jewish bricklayer carrying a hod up a hundred-foot ladder, and risking his neck for bread, cheese, and beer? No, and you never will. We did our share of that kind of work in old Egypt; we made all the bricks we wanted to, and now we're taking a rest. A strike of bootmakers. How many of our race among the cobblers? One in a thousand, and he's an addlepate. We deal in boots-wholesale, but we don't make them ourselves. Not likely. We build houses-with our money and your bricks and mortar. When we're after birds we don't care for sparrows; we aim at eagles, and we bring them down, we bring them down." He beat his gloved hands together and chuckled. "What's your opinion, doctor?"

      "You are right, quite right," said Dr. Spenlove, upon whose ears his companion's words had fallen like the buzzing of insects.

      "Should say I was," said Mr. Moss, and would have continued had not Dr.