distant street, Zelig snatched off the greasy cap he
always wore, and in confusion instantly put it on again. "All the rest
of the day," the Pole related with awe, "he looked wilder than ever,
and so thumped with his iron on the cloth that I feared the building
would come down."

But Zelig paid little heed to what was said about him. He dedicated his
existence to the saving of his earnings, and only feared that he might
be compelled to spend some of them. More than once his wife would be
appalled in the dark of night by the silhouette of old Zelig in
nightdress, sitting up in bed and counting a bundle of bank notes which
he always replaced under his pillow. She frequently upbraided him for
his niggardly nature, for his warding off all requests outside the
pittance for household expense. She pleaded, exhorted, wailed. He
invariably answered: "I haven't a cent by my soul." She pointed to the
bare walls, the broken furniture, their beggarly attire.

"Our son is ill," she moaned. "He needs special food and rest; and our
grandson is no more a baby; he'll soon need money for his studies. Dark
is my world; you are killing both of them."

Zelig's color vanished; his old hands shook with emotion. The poor woman
thought herself successful, but the next moment he would gasp: "Not a
cent by my soul."

One day old Zelig was called from his shop, because his son had a sudden
severe attack; and, as he ascended the stairs of his home, a neighbor
shouted: "Run for a doctor; the patient cannot be revived." A voice as
if from a tomb suddenly sounded in reply, "I haven't a cent by my soul."

The hallway was crowded with the ragged tenants of the house, mostly
women and children; from far off were heard the rhythmic cries of the
mother. The old man stood for a moment as if chilled from the roots
of his hair to the tips of his fingers. Then the neighbors heard his
sepulchral mumble: "I'll have to borrow somewheres, beg some one," as
he retreated down the stairs. He brought a physician; and when the
grandson asked for money to go for the medicine, Zelig snatched the
prescription and hurried away, still murmuring: "I'll have to borrow,
I'll have to beg."

Late that night, the neighbors heard a wail issuing from old Zelig's
apartment; and they understood that the son was no more.

Zelig's purse was considerably thinned. He drew from it with palsied
fingers for all burial expenses, looking about him in a dazed way.
Mechanically he perfor