LEIZ EIZER Lipman was one of those con tract tailors who are classed by their hands under the head of "cockroaches," which-translating the term into lay English-means that he ran a very small shop, giving employment to a single team of one sewing-machine operator, one baster, one finisher and one presser. The shop was one of a suite of three rooms on the third floor of a rickety old tenement house on Essex street, and did the additional duty of the family's kitchen and dining-room. It faced a dingy little courtyard and was connected by a windowless bedroom, with the parlor which commanded the very heart of the Jewish markets. Bundles of cloth, cut to be made into coats, littered the floor, lay in chaotic piles by one of the walls, cumbered Mrs. Lipman's kitchen table and one or two chairs, and formed, in a cor*Written for Short Stories. Illustrations by Arthur I. Keller.Copyrighted. ner, an improvised bed upon which a dirty two-year-old boy, Leizer's heir apparent, was enjoying his siesta. Dangling against the door or scattered among the bundles, there were cooking utensils, dirty linen, Lipman's velvet skull-cap, hats, shoes, shears, cotton-spools, and whatnot. A red-hot kitchen stove and a blazing grate full of glowing flat-irons combined to keep up the overpowering temperature of the room, and helped to justify its nickname of sweat-shop in the literal sense of the epithet. Work was rather scarce, but the designer of the Broadway clothing firm, of whose army of contractors Lipman was a member, was a second cousin to the latter's wife, and he saw to it that his relative's husband was kept busy. And so operations in Leizer's shop were in full swing. Heyman, the operator, with his bared brawny arms, pushed away at an unfinished coat, over which his head, presenting to view a wealth of curly brown hair, hung like an eagle bent on his prey. He swayed in unison to the rhythmic whirr of his machine, whose music, supported by the energetic thumps of the presser Meyer's, iron, formed an orchestral accompaniment to the sonorous and plaintive strains of a vocal duct performed by Beile, the finisher girl, and David the baster. Leizer was gone to the Broadway firm's offices, while Zlate, his wife, was out on a prolonged haggling expedition among the tradeswomen of Hester street. This circumstance gave the hands a respite from the restrictions usually placed on their liberties by the presence of the "boss" and the "Missis," and they freely beguiled the tedium and fatigue of their work, now by singing, now by a bantering match at the expense of their employer and his wife, or of each other. "Well, I suppose you might as well quit," said Meyer, a chubby, red-haired, freckled fellow of forty, emphasizing his remark by an angry stroke of his iron. "You have been over that song now fifty times without taking breath. You make me tired." "Don't you like it? Stuff up your ears, then," Beile retorted, without lifting her head from the coat in her lap. "Why, I do like it, first-rate and a half," Meyer returned, "but when you keep your mouth shut I like it better still, see?" The silvery tinkle of Beile's voice, as she was singing, thrilled Heyman with delicious melancholy, gave him fresh relish for his work, and infused additional activity into his limbs; and as her singing was interrupted by the presser's gibe, he involuntarily stopped his machine with that annoying feeling which is generally experienced by dancers when brought to an unexpected standstill by an abrupt pause of the music. "And you?" he addressed himself to Meyer, facing about on his chair with an irritated countenance. "It's all right enough when you speak, but it is much better when you hold your tongue. Don't mind him, Beile. Sing away!" he then said to the girl, his dazzlingly fair face relaxing and his little eyes shutting into a sweet smile of selfconfident gallantry. "You had better stick to your work, Heyman. Why, you might have made half a cent the while," Meyer fired back, with an ironical look, which had reference to the operator's reputation of being a niggardly fellow, who overworked himself, denied himself every pleasure, and grew fat by feasting his eyes on his savings-bank book. A sharp altercation ensued, which drifted to the subject of Heyman's servile conduct toward his employer. "It was you, wasn't it," Meyer said, "who started that collection for a birthday present for the boss? Of course, we couldn't help chipping in. Why is David independent?” "Did I compel you?" Heyman rejoined. "And am I to blame that it was to me that the boss threw out the hint about that present? It is so slack everywhere, and you ought to thank God for the steady job you have here," he concluded, pouncing down upon the coat on his machine. David, who had also cut short his singing, kept silently plying his needle upon pieces of stuff which lay stretched on his master's dining-table. Presently he paused to adjust his disheveled jet-black hair with his fingers for a comb, and to wipe the perspiration from his swarthy and typically Israelitic, beardless face with his shirt-sleeve. While this was in progress, his languid hazel eyes were fixed on the finisher girl. The latter instinctively became conscious of his gaze, and raised her head from the needle, whereupon her fresh buxom face flushed, with the heat of the room and with exertion, shone full upon the young |