hallway of a tenement house in Park Avenue. On the iron viaduct that
bestrides that deceptively named thoroughfare heavy trains thundered at
intervals, and it was only after Morris had knocked repeatedly at the
door of a top-floor apartment that its inmates heard the summons above
the roar of the traffic without.

"Well, Mrs. Schenkmann," Minnie cried cheerfully, "how's the baby
to-night?"

"Schenkmann?" Morris murmured; "Schenkmann? Is that the name of them
people?"

"Why, yes," Minnie replied. "Didn't I tell you that? Mrs. Schenkmann,
this is my husband. And I suppose this is Mr. Schenkmann."

A tall, gaunt person rose from the soap box that did duty as a chair and
ducked his head shyly.

"Schenkmann?" Morris repeated. "You ain't the Schenkmann which he works
by Max Linkheimer?"

Nathan Schenkmann nodded and Mrs. Schenkmann groaned aloud.

"_Ai zuris!_" she cried, "for his sorrow he works by Max Linkheimer.
Eight dollars a week he is supposed to get there, and Linkheimer makes
us live here in his house. Twelve dollars a month we pay for the rooms,
lady, and Linkheimer takes three dollars each week from Nathan's money.
We couldn't even get dispossessed like some people does and save a
month's rent oncet in a while maybe. The rooms ain't worth it, lady,
believe me."