A Fair Jewess

"You did not meet the woman, then?"

"Not to notice her. You've a bad cough, doctor; you'll have to take some of your own medicine." He laughed. "Standing here is enough to freeze one."

"I am sorry I troubled you," said Dr. Spenlove. "Good-night."

He was moving away when Mr. Moss detained him.

"But look here, doctor, you're not fit to be tramping the streets in this storm; you ought to be snuggled up between the blankets. Come home with me, and Mrs. Moss shall make you a hot grog."

Dr. Spenlove shook his head and passed on. Mr. Moss gazed at the retreating figure, his thoughts commingling.

"A charitable man, the good doctor, a large-hearted gentleman. 'Tardi si fa-' And poor as a church mouse. What woman is he running after? Mrs. Moss would give her a piece of her mind for taking out a baby on such a night. Too bad to let him go alone, but Mrs. Moss will be waiting up for me. She won't mind when I tell her. I've a good mind to- Yes, I will."

And after the doctor went Mr. Moss, and caught up to him.

"Doctor, can I be of any assistance to you?"

"I shall be glad of your help," said Dr. Spenlove eagerly. "I'm rather worn out-I have had a hard day."

"It's a trying life, the life of a doctor," said Mr. Moss sympathetically as they walked slowly on. "We were talking of it at home only a month ago when we were discussing what we should put Michael to-our eldest boy, doctor."

"You have a large family," observed Dr. Spenlove.

"Not too large," said Mr. Moss cheerfully. "Only eleven. My mother had twenty-five, and I've a sister with eighteen. Our youngest-what a rogue he is, doctor-is eight months; our eldest, Michael, is seventeen next birthday. Schooldays over, he buckles to for work. We had a family council to decide what he should be. We discussed all the professions, and reduced them to two-doctor, stockbroker. Michael had a leaning to be a doctor, that's why we kept it in for discussion, and we succeeded in arguing him out of it. Your time's not your own, you see. Called up at all hours of the night and in all weathers; go to a dinner party, and dragged away before it's half over; obliged to leave the best behind you; can't enjoy a game of cards or billiards. You've got a little bet on, perhaps, or you're playing for points, and you're just winning when it's, 'Doctor, you must come at once; so and so's dying.' What's the consequence? You make a miscue, or you revoke, and you lose your money. If you're married you're worse off than if you're single; you haven't any comfort of your life. 'No, no, Michael,' says I, 'no doctoring. Stockbroking-that's what you'll go for.' And that's what he is going for. Most of our people, doctor, are lucky in their children; they don't forget to honor their father and their mother that their days may be long in the land, and so on. There's big fish on the Stock Exchange, and they're worth trying for. What's the use of sprats? It takes a hundred to fill a dish. Catch one salmon and your dish is filled. A grand fish, doctor, a grand fish! What to do with our sons? Why, put them where they can make money. We know what we're about. There's no brain in the world to compare with ours, and that's no boast, let me tell you. Take your strikes now-a strike of bricklayers for a rise of twopence per day in their wages. How many of our race among the strikers? Not one. Did you ever see a Jewish bricklayer carrying a hod up a hundred-foot ladder, and risking his neck for bread, cheese, and beer? No, and you never will. We did our share of that kind of work in old Egypt; we made all the bricks we wanted to, and now we're taking a rest. A strike of bootmakers. How many of our race among the cobblers? One in a thousand, and he's an addlepate. We deal in boots-wholesale, but we don't make them ourselves. Not likely. We build houses-with our money and your bricks and mortar. When we're after birds we don't care for sparrows; we aim at eagles, and we bring them down, we bring them down." He beat his gloved hands together and chuckled. "What's your opinion, doctor?"

"You are right, quite right," said Dr. Spenlove, upon whose ears his companion's words had fallen like the buzzing of insects.

"Should say I was," said Mr. Moss, and would have continued had not Dr. Spenlove hurried forward out of hearing.

During the time that Mr. Moss was expounding his views they had not met a soul, and Dr. Spenlove had seen nothing to sustain his hope of finding Mrs. Turner. But now his observant eyes detected a movement in the snow-laden road which thrilled him with apprehension, and caused him to hasten hurriedly to the spot. It was as if some living creature was striving feebly to release itself from the fatal white shroud. Mr. Moss hurried after him, and they reached the spot at the same moment. In a fever of anxiety Dr. Spenlove knelt and pushed the snow aside, and then there came into view a baby's hand and arm.

"Good God!" he murmured, and gently lifted the babe from the cold bed.

"Is it alive, is it alive?" cried Mr. Moss, all his nerves tingling with excitements "Give it to me-quick; there's someone else there."

He saw portions of female clothing in the snow which Dr. Spenlove was pushing frantically away. He snatched up the babe, and opening his fur coat, clasped the little one closely to his breast, and enveloped it in its warm folds. To release Mrs. Turner from her perilous condition, to raise her to her feet, to put his mouth to her mouth, his ear to her heart, to assure himself that there was a faint pulsation in her body-all this was the work of a few moments.

"Does she breathe, doctor?" asked Mr. Moss.

"She does," replied Dr. Spenlove, and added in deep distress, "but she may die in my arms!"

"Not if we can save her. Here, help me off with this thick coat. Easy, easy; I have only one arm free. Now let us get her into it. That's capitally done. Put the baby inside as well; it will hold them both comfortably. Button it over them. There, that will keep them nice and warm. Do you know her? Does she live far from here? Is she the woman you are looking for?"

"Yes, and her lodging is a mile away. How can we get her home?"

"We'll manage it. Ah, we're in luck! Here's a cab coming toward us. Hold on to them while I speak to the driver."

He was off and back again with the cab, with the driver of which he had made a rapid bargain, in a wonderfully short space of time. The mother and her babe were lifted tenderly in, the address was given to the driver, the two kind-hearted men took their seats, the windows were pulled up, and the cab crawled slowly on toward Mrs. Turner's lodging. Dr. Spenlove's skillful hands were busy over the woman, restoring animation to her frozen limbs, and Mr. Moss was doing the same to the child.

"How are you getting along, doctor? I am progressing famously. The child is warming up, and is beginning to breathe quite nicely." He was handling the babe as tenderly as if it were a child of his own.

"She will recover, I trust," said Dr. Spenlove, "but we were only just in time. It is fortunate that I met you, Mr. Moss; you have been the means of saving two helpless, unfortunate beings."

"Nonsense, nonsense," answered Mr. Moss. "I have only done what any man would do. It is you who have saved them, doctor, not I. I am proud to know you, and I shall be glad to hear of your getting along in the world. You haven't done very well up to now, I fear. Go for the big fish and the big birds, doctor."

"If that were the universal law of life," asked Dr. Spenlove in a tone of exquisite compassion, with a motion of his hands toward Mrs. Turner and her child, "what would become of these?"

"Ah, yes, yes," responded Mr. Moss gravely, "but I mean in a general way, you know. To be sure, there are millions more little fish and birds than there are big ones, but it's a selfish world, doctor."

"You are not an exemplification of it," said Dr. Spenlove, his eyes brightening. "The milk of human kindness will never be frozen, even on such bitter nights as this, while men like you are in it."

"You make me ashamed of myself," cried Mr. Moss violently, but instantly sobered down. "And now, as I see we are close to the poor woman's house, perhaps you will tell me what more I can do."

Dr. Spenlove took from his pocket the money with which he had intended to pay his fare to London, and held it out to Mr. Moss. "Pay the cabman for me, and assist me to carry the woman up to her room."

Mr. Moss thrust the money back. "I will pay him myself; it is my cab, not yours. I don't allow anyone to get the better of me if I can help it."

When the cab stopped he jumped out and settled with the driver, and then he and Dr. Spenlove carried Mrs. Turner and her babe to the top of the house. The room was dark and cold, and Mr. Moss shivered. He struck a match, and held it while Dr. Spenlove laid the mother and child upon their wretched bed.

"Kindly stop here a moment," said the doctor.

He went into the passage, and called to the lodger on the same floor of whom he had made inquiries earlier in the night. She soon appeared, and after they had exchanged a few words accompanied him, but partially dressed, to Mrs. Turner's room. She brought a lighted candle with her, and upon Mr. Moss taking it from her devoted herself, with Dr. Spenlove, to her fellow-lodger and the babe.

"Dear, dear, dear!" she said piteously. "Poor soul, poor soul!"

Mr. Moss was not idle. All the finer qualities of his nature were stirred to action by the adventures of the night. He knelt before the grate; it was empty; not a cinder had been left; some gray ashes on the hearth-that was all. He looked into the broken coal scuttle; it had been scraped bare. Rising to his feet, he stepped to the cupboard; a cracked cup and saucer were there, a chipped plate or two, a mouthless jug, and not a vestige of food. Without a word he left the room, and sped downstairs.

He was absent fifteen or twenty minutes, and when he returned it was in the company of a man who carried a hundredweight of coals upon his shoulders. Mr. Moss himself was loaded; under his armpits two bundles of wood; in one hand a loaf of bread, tea, and butter; in his other hand a can of milk.

"God bless you, sir!" said the woman who was assisting Dr. Spenlove.

Mr. Moss knelt again before the grate, and made a fire. Kettle in hand he searched for water.

"You will find some in my room, sir," said the woman.

Mrs. Turner and her babe were now in bed, the child still craving for food, the mother still unconscious, but breathing heavily. The fire lit, and the kettle on, Mr. Moss put on his fur overcoat, whispered a good-night to Dr. Spenlove, received a grateful pressure of the hand in reply, slipped out of the house, and took his way home, humming:

"O del ciel angeli immortal,
Deh mi guidate con voi lassù!
Dio giusto, a te m'abbandono,
Buon Dio m'accorda il tuo perdono!"

He looked at his hands, which were black from contact with the coals.

"What will Mrs. Moss say?" he murmured.

CHAPTER VII.

THE RESULT OF DR. SPENLOVE'S MISSION