I had had a little money in the Savings Bank. With this sum I had intended to furnish the rooms which she and I were to have occupied! Now it was all spent; three-quarters swallowed up by the expenses of my trial, the residue by the expenses of my illness and the landlady’s score for rent. I opened my purse. I had less than a dollar left. So it behooved me to lose no time. I must find a means of support at once. But music apart, what remained?—My wits were sluggish. Revolving the problem over and over as I walked along, they could arrive at no solution. We were in December. The day was bitter cold. I had not proceeded a great distance before the cold began to tell upon me. “I must step in somewhere and warm myself,” I said. I was still feeble. I could not endure the stress of the weather as I might have done formerly. I made for the first shop I saw. It was a wine-shop, kept by a German, as the name above the door denoted. I took a table near the stove and asked for a glass of wine. As my senses thawed, I became aware that a quarrel was going on in the room—angry voices penetrated my hearing. The proprietor, a fat man in his shirt-sleeves, stood behind the bar. His face was very red! In his native tongue loudly and volubly he was berating one of his assistants—a waiter with a scared face. “Go, go at once. You are a rascal, a good-for-naught,” he was saying; “here is your money. Clear out, before I hurt you.” The culprit was nervously untying his apron strings. “Yes, sir, at once, at once,” he stammered. In the end he put on his hat and accomplished a frightened exit. His confreres watched his decapitation with repressed sympathy. After he had gone, the proprietor’s wrath began perceptibly to mitigate. He settled down in his chair. The tint of his skin gradually cooled. He lighted a cigar. He picked up a newspaper. I had taken in these various proceedings mechanically, without bestowing upon them any special attention. But now an idea, prompted by them, began to fructify. By and by I approached the counter and ventured a timid, “I beg your pardon.” The proprietor glanced up. “I beg your pardon,” I continued in German, “but you have discharged a waiter!” “Well?” he responded. “Well, you will probably need somebody to take his place?” “Well? What of it?” “I—I—that is, if you think I would do, I should like the employment.” The proprietor looked thoughtful. He scratched his chin, puffed vigorously at his cigar, and asked my name. He shook his head when I confessed that I had had no experience of the business; but seemed impressed by my remark that on that account I would be willing to serve for smaller wages. He mentioned a stipend. It was ridiculously slender; but what cared I? It would keep body and soul together. I desired nothing more. “What references can you give?” he inquired. I mentioned Epstein.