Chertoff was a hunchback. He had a huge head and tremendously long arms and features of waxen pallor. Children who saw him for the first time would run from him with fright and would hide in doorways until he had passed. Yet those who knew him loved him, for under his repellent exterior throbbed a warm heart, and his nature was kindly and cheering. In Gurtman’s sweatshop, where he toiled from dawn to nightfall, he was loved by all—that is, all save Gurtman—for when the day’s task seemed hardest and the click and roar of the machines chanted the song of despair that all sweatshop workers know so well, Chertoff would burst into a lively tune and fill the room with gladness. Then he would gossip and tell interesting stories and bandy jests with anyone in the room who showed the slightest disposition to contribute a moment’s gaiety to the dreary, heart-breaking routine. It was before the days of the factory inspectors, and conditions were bad—so bad that if anyone were to tell you how bad they were you would never believe it. In those days a bright spirit in a sweatshop was no common thing. One day Gurtman announced that there would be a reduction of three cents on piece-work, and a great silence fell upon the room. A woman gasped as if something had struck her. And Chertoff struck up a merry Russian tune: “_The miller in his Sunday clothes Came riding into Warsaw._” “Why do you always sing those silly tunes?” Gurtman asked, peevishly. And then Chertoff closed his eyes and answered: “Perhaps to save your life! Who knows?” Then he opened his eyes and laughed, and many laughed with him at the very silliness of the retort, but the sweater only disliked him the more for it. It was a curious habit of Chertoff’s to close his eyes when something stung him, and it worked a startling transformation in his expression. It was as if a light had been extinguished and a sudden gloom had overspread his features. The lines became sharp, and something sinister would creep into his countenance. But in a moment his eyes would open and a light of kindness would illumine his face. Twice this transformation had come upon him and had lingered long enough to make the room uneasy. The first time was when Chertoff’s mother, who had worked at the machine side by side with her son for five years, was summarily dismissed. Chertoff had asked the sweater for the reason. In the hearing of all the room Gurtman had curtly replied: “She’s too old for work. She’s too slow. I don’t want her.”