His shop is on the third floor of a rear building, which was once used for dwelling purposes but is now given over entirely to clothing manufactories or sweatshops. A flight of dark, ill-odored, rickety stairs gives access to it. There is noise and chatter audible, a thick mixture of sounds from whirring sewing machines and muttering human beings. When you open the door a gray-haired Hebrew, whose long beard rests patriarchally upon his bosom, looks over his shoulders at you from a brick furnace, where he is picking up a reheated iron. Others glance up from their bent positions over machines and ironing-boards. It is a shadowy, hot-odored, floor-littered room. “Have you a finisher doing work for you by the name of Koslovsky?” inquires the inspector of a thin, bright-eyed Syrian Jew, who is evidently the proprietor of this establishment. “Koslovsky?” he says after him, in a nervous, fawning, conciliatory manner. “Koslovsky? What is he? No.” “Finisher, I said.” “Yes, finisher--finisher, that’s it. He does no work for me--only a little--a pair of pants now and then.” “You knew that he didn’t have a license, didn’t you?” “No, no. I did not. No license? Did he not have a license?” “You’re supposed to know that. I’ve told you that before. You’ll have to answer at the office for this. I’ve tagged his goods. Don’t you receive them now. Do you hear?” “Yes,” says the proprietor excitedly. “I would not receive them. He will get no more work from me. When did you do that?” “Just this morning. Your goods will go up to headquarters.” “So,” he replied weakly. “That is right. It is just so. Come over here.” The inspector follows him to a desk in the corner. “Could you not help me out of this?” he asks, using a queer Jewish accent. “I did not know this once. You are a nice man. Here is a present for you. It is funny I make this mistake.” “No,” returns the inspector, shaking his head. “Keep your money. I can’t do anything. These goods are tagged. You must learn not to give out finishing to people without a license.” “That is right,” he exclaims. “You are a nice man, anyhow. Keep the money.” “Why should I keep the money? You’ll have to explain anyhow. I can’t do anything for you.” “That is all right,” persists the other. “Keep it, anyhow. Don’t bother me in the future. There!” “No, we can’t do that. Money won’t help you. Just observe the law--that’s all I want.” “The law, the law,” repeats the other curiously. “That is right. I will observe him.” Such is one story--almost the whole story. This employer, so nervous in his wrongdoings, so anxious to bribe, is but a little better off than those who work for him.