Then they tramped off toward the spreading Hebrew settlement on North Second Street. Levitsky, the man whom they sought, while he claimed a voting place in the ward, really lived south of the line, in one of the row of houses that face the old market sheds. These teem with long-coated, huge-bearded Russian Jews, who drag their stock in trade upon the sidewalk each morning and prowl up and down before it watching for customers, and hoarsely shouting in a mixture of English and Yiddish. Larry and his chum paused before a dirty bulk window heaped with odds and ends of merchandise; on a stand upon the sidewalk lay little stacks of Yiddish newspapers and pamphlets; a thin, yellow-faced man, in a round, high-crowned cap, and with a beard of patriarchal length, sat in the doorway twisting a cigarette out of some damp tobacco. He was a wise man in the Ghetto, learned in the law and a public reader of the scrolls; he knew the ways of Gentile youth when it was half drunken, for he drew his long coat about his gaunt frame as they approached, and raised his hand to prevent the expected plucking at his beard. “Where’s Levitsky?” asked Larry. The man in the velvet cap gestured his relief and called shrilly to someone within. A girl came out; a dark-eyed, deep-breasted girl, the perfect type of Jewess. “Levitsky’s gone down to get his breakfast at Sam’s,” said she. “Much obliged,” said Larry. “Come on, Goose.” Down the street a scarlet lettered sign flamed conspicuously among a wilderness of others, and thither they hurried and entered at the door over which it hung. The revolving fans drove the hot, strong-odoured breath of the place into their faces; waiters, greasy aproned and perspiring, rushed about dexterously balancing pyramids of food-filled crockery; the room resounded with shouted orders and the incessant ringing of the cash register. “There he is,” said Larry. A stocky young man, in a collarless shirt, was just about to seat himself at a table; he greeted them surprisedly. “Vy cert’ny,” answered he, “ye kin see me. But I cand sell no bolicy here, chends; there ish doo many beoble.” “We ain’t lookin’ for policy. We want to see youse about yer little old vote in the convention.” Levitsky grinned. “Oh!” said he, “vell, sit down. Vill you have anyding to eat?” “No!” said Larry. “We’ll on’y stay in here a second.” The policy-writer did not urge them, but turned to the waiter. “Two fried eggs; a rare steak ant onions, ant a cup of coffee.” And then Larry proceeded to state his views; Levitsky listened, never volunteering a word, until he had finished his excited remarks, then he spoke. “Youse chends alvays treaded me right,” said he, “and I wud like to do someding for you, an’d dot ride? But McQuirk jusd god me oudt of drouble and I cand go pack on him, can I?” He flourished his arms wildly as though protesting against the mere thought. “I vill leave id to you fellas!” exclaimed he, “vould id be ride?”