"Reb Shloimeh," he said shortly, "you prevent us from working with your stories. What do you mean by it? You come and interfere with the work." "But do I disturb?" he asked. "They go on working all the time----" "And a pretty way of working," answered the bookbinder. "The boys are ready enough at finding an excuse for idling as it is! And why do you choose me? There are plenty of other workshops----" It was an honest "neck and crop" business, and there was nothing left for Reb Shloimeh but to take up his stick and go. "Nothing--again!" he whispered. There was a sting in his heart, a beating in his temples, and his head burned. "Nothing--again! This time it's all over. I must die--die--a story _with_ an end." Had he been young, he would have known what to do. He would never have begun to think about death, but now--where was the use of living on? What was there to wait for? All over!--all over!-- It was as much as he could do to get home. He sat down in the arm-chair, laid his head back, and thought. He pictured to himself the last weeks at the bookbinder's and the change that had taken place in the workmen; how they had appeared better-mannered, more human, more intelligent. It seemed to him that he had implanted in them the love of knowledge and the inclination to study, had put them in the way of viewing more rightly what went on around them. He had been of some account with them--and all of a sudden--! "No!" he said to himself. "They will come to me--they must come!" he thought, and fixed his eyes on the door. He even forgot that they worked till nine o'clock at night, and the whole evening he never took his eyes off the door. The time flew, it grew later and later, and the book-binders did not come. At last he could bear it no longer, and went out into the street; perhaps he would see them, and then he would call them in. It was dark in the street; the gas lamps, few and far between, scarcely gave any light. A chilly autumn night; the air was saturated with moisture, and there was dreadful mud under foot. There were very few passers-by, and Reb Shloimeh remained standing at his door. When he heard a sound of footsteps or voices, his heart began to beat quicker. His old wife came out three times to call him into the house again, but he did not hear her, and remained standing outside. The street grew still. There was nothing more to be heard but the rattles of the night-watchmen. Reb Shloimeh gave a last look into the darkness, as though trying to see someone, and then, with a groan, he went indoors. Next morning he felt very weak, and stayed in bed. He began to feel that his end was near, that he was but a guest tarrying for a day. "It's all the same, all the same!" he said to himself, thinking quietly about death. All sorts of ideas went through his head. He thought as it were unconsciously, without giving himself a clear account of what he was thinking of.