The King of Schnorrers: Grotesques and Fantasies. Zangwill Israel

clouded again in wrathful righteous surprise. "Did you think I was going to pay?" he gasped.

      "N-n-no," stammered the Pole, abashed. "But you haven't got no orders?"

      "Orders? Me? Will you do me the pleasure of accepting a seat in my box?"

      "In your box?"

      "Yes, there is plenty of room. Come this way," said Manasseh. "I haven't been to the play myself for over a year. I am too busy always. It will be an agreeable change."

      Yankelé hung back, bewildered.

      "Through this door," said Manasseh encouragingly. "Come – you shall lead the way."

      "But dey vill not admit me!"

      "Will not admit you! When I give you a seat in my box! Are you mad? Now you shall just go in without me – I insist upon it. I will show you Manasseh Bueno Barzillai Azevedo da Costa is a man whose word is the Law of Moses; true as the Talmud. Walk straight through the portico, and, if the attendant endeavours to stop you, simply tell him Mr. da Costa has given you a seat in his box."

      Not daring to exhibit scepticism – nay, almost confident in the powers of his extraordinary protector, Yankelé put his foot on the threshold of the lobby.

      "But you be coming, too?" he said, turning back.

      "Oh, yes, I don't intend to miss the performance. Have no fear."

      Yankelé walked boldly ahead, and brushed by the door-keeper of the little theatre without appearing conscious of him; indeed, the official was almost impressed into letting the Schnorrer pass unquestioned as one who had gone out between the acts. But the visitor was too dingy for anything but the stage-door – he had the air of those nondescript beings who hang mysteriously about the hinder recesses of playhouses. Recovering himself just in time, the functionary (a meek little Cockney) hailed the intruder with a backward-drawing "Hi!"

      "Vat you vant?" said Yankelé, turning his head.

      "Vhere's your ticket?"

      "Don't vant no ticket."

      "Don't you? I does," rejoined the little man, who was a humorist.

      "Mr. da Costa has given me a seat in his box."

      "Oh, indeed! You'd swear to that in the box?"

      "By my head. He gave it me."

      "A seat in his box?"

      "Yes."

      "Mr. da Costa, you vos a-sayin', I think?"

      "The same."

      "Ah! this vay, then!"

      And the humorist pointed to the street.

      Yankelé did not budge.

      "This vay, my lud!" cried the little humorist peremptorily.

      "I tells you I'm going into Mr. da Costa's box!"

      "And I tells you you're a-goin' into the gutter." And the official seized him by the scruff of the neck and began pushing him forwards with his knee.

      "Now then! what's this?"

      A stern, angry voice broke like a thunderclap upon the humorist's ears. He released his hold of the Schnorrer and looked up, to behold a strange, shabby, stalwart figure towering over him in censorious majesty.

      "Why are you hustling this poor man?" demanded Manasseh.

      "He wanted to sneak in," the little Cockney replied, half apologetically, half resentfully. "Expect 'e 'ails from Saffron 'Ill, and 'as 'is eye on the vipes. Told me some gammon – a cock-and-bull story about having a seat in a box."

      "In Mr. da Costa's box, I suppose?" said Manasseh, ominously calm, with a menacing glitter in his eye.

      "Ye-es," said the humorist, astonished and vaguely alarmed. Then the storm burst.

      "You impertinent scoundrel! You jackanapes! You low, beggarly rapscallion! And so you refused to show my guest into my box!"

      "Are you Mr. da Costa?" faltered the humorist.

      "Yes, I am Mr. da Costa, but you won't much longer be door-keeper, if this is the way you treat people who come to see your pieces. Because, forsooth, the man looks poor, you think you can bully him safely – forgive me, Yankelé, I am so sorry I did not manage to come here before you, and spare you this insulting treatment! And as for you, my fine fellow, let me tell you that you make a great mistake in judging from appearances. There are some good friends of mine who could buy up your theatre and you and your miserable little soul at a moment's notice, and to look at them you would think they were cadgers. One of these days – hark you! – you will kick out a person of quality, and be kicked out yourself."

      "I – I'm very sorry, sir."

      "Don't say that to me. It is my guest you owe an apology to. Yes – and, by Heaven! you shall pay it, though he is no plutocrat, but only what he appears. Surely, because I wish to give a treat to a poor man who has, perhaps, never been to the play in his life, I am not bound to send him to the gallery – I can give him a corner in my box if I choose. There is no rule against that, I presume?"

      "No, sir, I can't say as there is," said the humorist humbly. "But you will allow, sir, it's rayther unusual."

      "Unusual! Of course, it's unusual. Kindness and consideration for the poor are always unusual. The poor are trodden upon at every opportunity, treated like dogs, not men. If I had invited a drunken fop, you'd have met him hat in hand (no, no, you needn't take it off to me now; it's too late). But a sober, poor man – by gad! I shall report your incivility to the management, and you'll be lucky if I don't thrash you with this stick into the bargain."

      "But 'ow vos I to know, sir?"

      "Don't speak to me, I tell you. If you have anything to urge in extenuation of your disgraceful behaviour, address your remarks to my guest."

      "You'll overlook it this time, sir," said the little humorist, turning to Yankelé.

      "Next time, p'raps, you believe me ven I say I have a seat in Mr. da Costa's box," replied Yankelé, in gentle reproach.

      "Well, if you're satisfied, Yankelé," said Manasseh, with a touch of scorn, "I have no more to say. Go along, my man, show us to our box."

      The official bowed and led them into the corridor. Suddenly he turned back.

      "What box is it, please?" he said timidly.

      "Blockhead!" cried Manasseh. "Which box should it be? The empty one, of course."

      "But, sir, there are two boxes empty," urged the poor humorist deprecatingly, "the stage-box and the one by the gallery."

      "Dolt! Do I look the sort of person who is content with a box on the ceiling? Go back to your post, sir – I'll find the box myself – Heaven send you wisdom – go back, some one might sneak in while you are away, and it would just serve you right."

      The little man slunk back half dazed, glad to escape from this overwhelming personality, and in a few seconds Manasseh stalked into the empty box, followed by Yankelé, whose mouth was a grin and whose eye a twinkle. As the Spaniard took his seat there was a slight outburst of clapping and stamping from a house impatient for the end of the entr'acte.

      Manasseh craned his head over the box to see the house, which in turn craned to see him, glad of any diversion, and some people, imagining the applause had reference to the new-comer, whose head appeared to be that of a foreigner of distinction, joined in it. The contagion spread, and in a minute Manasseh was the cynosure of all eyes and the unmistakable recipient of an "ovation." He bowed twice or thrice in unruffled dignity.

      There were some who recognised him, but they joined in the reception with wondering amusement. Not a few, indeed, of the audience were Jews, for Goodman's Fields was the Ghetto Theatre, and the Sabbath was not a sufficient deterrent to a lax generation. The audiences – mainly German and Poles – came to the little unfashionable playhouse as one happy family. Distinctions of rank were trivial, and gallery held converse with circle, and pit collogued with box. Supper parties were held on the benches.

      In a box that gave on the pit a portly