ast, he raised himself from my dishevelled desk, and
permitted me to half lift him to the floor. The gale of his grief had
blown away his words; his freshet of tears had soaked away the crust
of his grief. Reminiscence died in him--at least, the coherent part of
it.

"'Twas me that did it," he muttered, as I led him toward the
door--"me, the shoemaker of Jerusalem."

I got him to the sidewalk, and in the augmented light I saw that his
face was seared and lined and warped by a sadness almost incredibly
the product of a single lifetime.

And then high up in the firmamental darkness we heard the clamant
cries of some great, passing birds. My Wandering Jew lifted his hand,
with side-tilted head.

"The Seven Whistlers!" he said, as one introduces well-known friends.

"Wild geese," said I; "but I confess that their number is beyond me."

"They follow me everywhere," he said. "'Twas so commanded. What ye
hear is the souls of the seven Jews that helped with the Crucifixion.
Sometimes they're plovers and sometimes geese, but ye'll find them
always flyin' where I go."

I stood, uncertain how to take my leave. I looked down the street,
shuffled my feet, looked back again--and felt my hair rise. The old
man had disappeared.

And then my capillaries relaxed, for I dimly saw him footing it away
through the darkness. But he walked so swiftly and silently and
contrary to the gait promised by his age that my composure was not all
restored, though I knew not why.

That night I was foolish enough to take down some dust-covered
volumes from my modest shelves. I searched "Hermippus Redivvus" and
"Salathiel" and the "Pepys Collection" in vain. And then in a book
called "The Citizen of the World," and in one two centuries old, I
came upon what I desired. Michob Ader had indeed come to Paris in the
year 1643, and related to the _Turkish Spy_ an extraordinary story. He
claimed to be the Wandering Jew, and that--

But here I fell asleep, for my editorial duties had not been light
that day.

Judge Hoover was the _Bugle's_ candidate for congress. Having to
confer with him, I sought his home early the next morning; and we
walked together down town through a little street with which I was
unfamiliar.

"Did you ever hear of Michob Ader?" I asked him, smiling.

"Why, yes," said the judge. "And that reminds me of my shoes he has
for mending. Here is his shop now."

Judge Hoover stepped into a dingy, small shop. I looked up at the
si