The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1911-10-23

aim how everything went. He paid no attention to me for a moment; then, twiriing his hat mechanically, he looked up for an instant dropped his head. and said:
 ~Oh, jus de same as it wass."
 began to talk to him then, vaguely feeling that I fought to-; but. for the life of me- could think of nothing to say Even in the old days there had never been anything for to talk about save the weather and the food on the table and-busi ness. Business; always business with Blumen staub. Money. bargains. the price of things extortio,r-these were pretty much his elements of conversation. And it needed eyes at all to see that he wanted none of those tonight So stood foolishIy around in an aimIess of way. my library books tucked under my arm. my glasses held between the thumb and forennger Of one hand, feeling an embarrassment that belonged not especially to me. but rather to the condition oe things around both Have you ever felt that way-say, when calamity has occurred to friend. that somehow you must act as if felt personally responsible and sorry you had let it occur? My tongue refused to be nimble. though, with the old man dumby sitting there, and remember to have come away at length,
 
 that died in my throat:
 Well, just so it's no worse, you know"
 But it worse, and knew it. His face was flushed with little too much wine-or beer; per haps it was beer. Blumenstaub never used to drink too much in the old days: and he never used to frequent barrel houses and free lunches-and this is why suppose he drinks beer now-when we first met; let me see that was over year ago. It is hard sight to watch man lose his grip. tell you, but it is the hardest of all to see him lose it after nfty-hve. It all pitiiess and relentless. Of course, there is some philosophy by wEich you figure it all out impartially that old Blumenstaub should come to this; there is always some nice, pat little way of accounting for all things. He lacked ambition you might say. Who doesn't at fifty-fve? He should have foreseen his possible decline, should have laid by for a rainy day. And the wonder is. since he is Jew, that he didn't do something of the sort.
 The truth about Blumenstaub is that he never prepared, really prepared. for anything (the world is more than full of such peope) and he would have been content to go until the end of his days in his ffteen-donar-a-week clerkship under his younger brothers hard-headed rule.
 
 brother had ambitious notions. In weeks time he made up his mind to sell the wine shop get all his money together, go West, and invest in real estate To Blumenstaub. fifteen years his senior. these rapid events were too bewildering. He did not comprehend them until the last day. and then only when his brother laid the fifteen dollars his hand and remarked. in German
 ''Wel, this ends the old shop. You go down and see Stein. Maybe hell put you to work"
 Sometimes the best way to tell long story is to make 1t short We'll, then-stein hadn't put him to work
 And now all the grimness of the thing comes back to me; it has grown me, quietly. like the pathos of an old tune, since turned my heel and walked home with my library books, leaving him there by the stand an Forty-second waiting alone, and half drunk.
 r>. 9lumenstarb at Gallo's
 It around Fortieth Street then, in among the tenements there. rickety, greasy sld easement doorway and dark stumbly hall let you in: in the back the old Italian, in a tables and his wine Maison privee the rascal called it, to dodge the exciseman and his licenses: and The Dirty Spoon" is what some chorus girl nlcknamed it happy night
 Ruth and had little table a deux in those days. and had my wine with a card tied round