We sat in a cellar on Allen Street, that dreariest of all streets, where the elevated trains thunder overhead. An Arabian friend of his ran the restaurant. The food was excellent and our host was most generous. It was a genuine pleasure to talk to the man, he was so sincere, upright, plain-spoken. He talked at length about his youth which had been one long nightmare relieved only by intermittent dreams of being able one day to get to America. He described in simple, moving language his vision of America, conceived in the ghetto of Cracow. It was the same Paradise which millions of souls have fabricated in the darkness of despair. To be sure, the East Side wasn’t exactly as he had imagined it, but life was good nevertheless. He had hopes now of moving to the country some day, perhaps to the Catskill Mountains, where he would open a resort. He mentioned a town where I had spent my vacations as a boy: a little community long since taken over by the Chosen Tribe, bearing no resemblance to the charming little village I once had known. But I could easily imagine what a haven it would be for him.

We had been talking thus for some time when he suddenly thought of something. He got up and searched his overcoat pockets. Beaming like a schoolboy, he handed Mona and myself two little packets wrapped in tissue paper. They were little gifts, he explained, in appreciation of the way we had worked to make the candy business a success. We opened them at once. For Mona there was a beautiful wrist watch, for myself a fountain pen of the finest make. He thought they would be useful.

Then he proceeded to tell us of his plans for our future. We were to continue working just as we had been for a while and, if we trusted him sufficiently, we were to leave with him each week a portion of our earnings, so that he could lay something aside for us. He knew that we were incapable of saving a penny. He wanted very much to set us up in business, rent a little office somewhere and have people work for us. He was certain we would make a go of it. One should always start from the bottom, he thought, and use cash instead of borrowing, as Americans do. He took out his bank book and showed us his deposits. There was over twelve thousand dollars to his credit. After selling the store there would be another five to ten thousand dollars. If we did well, perhaps he would sell his store to us.

Again we were at a loss how to disillusion him. I intimated gently, very gently, that we might have other plans for the future, but seeing the look on his face I quickly dropped the subject. Yes, we would carry on. We would become the candy kings of Second Avenue.

Maybe we would move to the country too, help him run his resort in Livingston Manor. Yes, we would probably soon have children too. It was time to be getting serious. As for the writing, after we had built up a good business it would be time enough to think of that. Hadn’t Tolstoy retired to write only late in life? I nodded agreement rather than disappoint him. Then, in dead earnest, he asked if I didn’t think it would be a good idea to write up his life—how he rose from a worker in the marble quarries to the owner of a big resort. I said I thought it an excellent theme; we would talk it over when the time was ripe.

Anyway, we were hooked. For the life of me I couldn’t run out on the man. He was just too damned decent. Besides, Cromwell had yet to give the final word about that column. (He wouldn’t be in town again for a few weeks.) Why not stagger along in the candy business until then? As for Mona, she thought it would do no harm to try out the real estate business in the day time. Mathias was only too eager to advance her money on account until she made her first sale.

Despite all our good intentions the candy business was doomed. Mona could scarcely sell a box or two of an evening. I had taken to accompanying her again, waiting outside the joints with the two valises and myself with Elie Faure. (By now my blood was so saturated with the History of Art that I could close my eyes at will any time and recite whole passages, embroidering them with fantastic elaborations of my own.) Sheldon had mysteriously vanished, O’Mara had left for the South, and Osiecki was still in Canada. A dreary stretch. Tired of the Village and the East Side, we tried our luck uptown. It wasn’t the same old Broadway that George M. Cohan sang of. It was a noisy, rowdy, hostile atmosphere breeding nasty encounters, threats, insults, scorn, contempt and humiliation. All during this period I had a frightful case of the piles. I can see myself now all over again as I hung by the arms from a high picket railing opposite the Lido, thinking to ease the pain by lifting the weight off my feet. The last visit to the Lido ended with an attempt by the manager, an ex-pugilist, to lock Mona in his office and rape her. Good old Broadway!

It was high time to quit the racket. Instead of accumulating a little nest-egg we now owed our patron money. In addition I owed Maude a good sum for the home-made candy I had induced her to make for us. Poor Maude had entered into it with a will, thinking it would help us to meet the alimony bill.
In fact, everything was going screwy. Instead of getting up at noon we would lie abed till four or five in the afternoon. Mathias couldn’t understand what had come over Mona. Everything was set for her to make a killing, but she was letting it all drift through her hands.

Sometimes amusing things happened, such as a sudden attack of hiccoughs which lasted three days and finally forced us to summon a doctor. The moment I lifted up my shirt and felt the man’s cold finger on my abdomen I stopped hiccoughing. I felt a little ashamed of myself for having made him come all the way from the Bronx. He pretended to be delighted, probably because he discovered that we could play chess. He made no bones about the fact that when he wasn’t busy performing abortions he was playing chess. A strange individual, and highly sensitive.

Wouldn’t think of taking money from us. Insisted on lending us some. We were to call on him whenever we were in a jam, whether for money of for an abortion. He promised that the next time he called he would bring me one of Sholem Aleichem’s books. (At this period I hadn’t heard of Moishe Nadir, else I would have asked him to lend me My Life as an Echo.)
I couldn’t help remarking, after he left, how typical it was of Jewish physicians to behave thus. Never had a Jewish doctor pressed me to pay my bill.

Never had I met one who was not interested in the arts and sciences. Nearly all of them were musicians, painters or writers on the side. What’s more, they all held out the hand of friendship. How different from the run of Gentile physicians! For the life of me I couldn’t think of one Gentile doctor of my acquaintance who had the least interest in art, not one who was anything but the medico.
How do you explain it? I demanded.
The Jews are always human, said Mona.
You said it. They make you feel good even if you’re dying.

A week or so later, in urgent need of fifty dollars, I suddenly thought of my dentist, also of the Chosen Tribe. In my usual roundabout way, I decided to go to the 23rd Street office, where old man Creighton was working as a night messenger, and dispatch him to my friend with a note. I explained to Mona, on the way to the telegraph office, the peculiar tie which existed between this night messenger and myself. I reminded her of how he had come to our rescue that night at Jimmy Kelly’s place.

At the office we had to wait a while—Creighton was out on a route. I chinned a bit with the night manager, one of those reformed crooks whom O’Rourke had in hand. Finally Creighton appeared. He was surprised to see me with my wife. In his tactful way he behaved as if he had never met her before.
I told the night clerk I would be keeping Creighton for an hour or two. Outside I called a cab, intending to ride over to Brooklyn with him and wait at the corner until he had made the touch for me. We started rolling. Leisurely I explained the nature of our errand.

But it isn’t necessary to do that! he exclaimed. I have a little money put aside. It would be a pleasure, Mr. Miller, to lend you a hundred, or even two hundred, if that will help you out.
I demurred at first but finally gave in.
I’ll bring it to you the first thing in the morning, said Creighton. He drove all the way home with us, chatted a while at the door, then headed for the subway. We had compromised on a hundred and fifty dollars.
The next morning, bright and early, Creighton