Drabkin was an excellent workman,—a pocketbook maker whose handiwork was the talk of the town. Folks praised him in his presence and in his absence; he knew his worth and held his head proudly erect. It seemed to him that he had been created for the express purpose of speaking the truth to all employers right before their very faces, and upon the slightest provocation he would let them know that they were living off his sweat and blood,—that they were exploiters, bloodsuckers, cannibals, and so forth and so on. So that he never could find a steady place, and through the year he spent more days idle than at his employment. The bosses pitied him. “He’s a devil with claws,” they would say. “May no good Jew know him!... But he has golden hands!” “If it weren’t for his crazy notions he’d be rolling in money. Such a workman! His fingers fly, as if by magic!” Yet they could not suffer him in their shops. They even feared him. He was as widely known as a bad shilling, yet he was hired in the hope that perhaps he had changed for the better; perhaps he had calmed down and become quieter. Moreover, it was a pity to let a hand go around idle, when he could do more work in twelve hours than another could accomplish in twenty-four. But in a couple of days the employer would have to confess with a groan that Drabkin was the same insolent chap as ever, that it was dangerous to have him in a Jewish shop, because he would spoil the rest of the men. So he was shown the door. He did not take this to heart. It had already become a game to him. He was certain that the employers would finally be forced to come to him, because they needed him and must have him. For “his fingers fly, as if by magic.” And he would simply smile in ironic fashion and pierce the bosses with a look that caused them to shiver in their boots. “What? You don’t like my ditty?” he would ask. “You’re punishing me for telling the truth, ha? Exploiters! Vampires!” “You ought to be put into prison, or into the madhouse,” they would reply. “You’re a dangerous character. You’re a mad dog!...” “Ah, ahem, tra-la!” he would mock, in delight. “But how do you like my work? I’m a fast worker, ha?” And how this truthful boast cut the bosses! “May your hands be paralysed!” they would answer. “If your character were only as good as your workmanship, you’d be rolling in money.” “Working for you people!” he would suddenly revert to his favourite theme. “With a fourteen-hour day at the wages you pay, grass will soon be growing over my head. Exploiters! Vampires! Cannibals!...” “There he goes again!” they would break in. “March! Off with you. Go shout it from the house-tops!” “Ah, ahem, tra-la!” he would grunt again. “You don’t like it? Wait! Just wait!...” At the last words he would point a warning finger at them. Just what they were to wait for he himself did not know, but he had a feeling that something or other was bound to happen that would be not at all to the bosses’ taste.