"Things ain't the same like they used to be," the stranger remarked. "Twenty--twenty-five years ago a feller could get a meal down on Canal Street for a quarter--understand me--which it was really something you could say was remarkable. Take any of them places, Gifkin's _oder_ Wasserbauer's. Ain't I right?" "Did you used to went to Gifkin's?" Abe asked. "I should say!" his vis-a-vis replied. "When I was a boy of fifteen I am eating always regularly by Gifkin's." "Me too. I used to eat a whole lot by Gifkin's," Abe said; "in fact, I think I must of seen you there." "I shouldn't wonder," the stranger continued. "At the time, I was working by old man Baum right across from Gifkin's. He was my uncle already." "You are old man Baum's nephew!" Abe exclaimed. "How could that be? Old man Baum only got one brother, Nathan, which he got mixed up in a railroad accident near Knoxville. He was always up to some monkey business, that feller, _olav hasholom_." "Sure, I know," the stranger continued; "but old man Baum got also one sister, my mother, Mrs. Gershon. You must remember my father, Sam Gershon. Works for years by Richter as a cutter. My name is Mr. Max Gershon." "Why, sure I do!" Abe said, shaking hands with his new-found acquaintance. "So you are a son of old man Gershon? Do you live here in New York, Mr. Gershon?" "No; I live in Johnsville, Texas," Mr. Gershon replied. "This is my first visit North in twenty-five years. Yes, Mr.--er----" "Potash," Abe said. "Mr. Potash," Gershon continued, "I'm feeling pretty lonesome, I can tell you. All my folks is dead: my father, my mother, my two uncles; and there ain't a soul here in New York which remembers me at all." "Is that so?" Abe commented, with ready sympathy. "Yes, Mr. Potash," Gershon said, "when I was a boy I done a fool thing. When I was sixteen years old already I run away from home because my father licked me; and I never wrote to 'em or sent no word to 'em until it was too late. You see, up to five years since, I didn't done so good. Everything seemed to went against me, Mr. Potash; but lately I am doing a fine business for a small place like Johnsville, and to-day I got the best store down there." "You don't say so!" Abe cried. "So I thought last month, instead I would go to Dallas or Forth Worth like I usually done, I would come straight on to New York and not only buy my fall goods but also give the old folks a surprise. And what do I find? Everybody is dead." Mr. Gershon pressed a handkerchief to his eyes. "You shouldn't take on so," Abe said, leaning across the table and placing his hand on Gershon's arm. "It's the way of the world, Mr. Gershon, and I could assure you we got the finest line of garments in our store, which it is first-class stuff, up to the minute, and prices and everything just right." Mr. Gershon wiped his eyes. "You must excuse me, Mr. Potash," he said. "My feelings is got the better of me."