He fumbled for his worn-out pocket-book, and held it for a moment in his trembling hand.
During that moment, all manner of conflicting thoughts flashed like lightning through his mind.

He thought of his worthy mother's tearful farewell, and how she had said, "Veitel, this is a wicked world; gain thy bread honestly." He saw his old father on his death-bed, with his white head drooping over his emaciated frame.

He thought, too, of his fifty dollars gathered together so laboriously--of the insults he had had to bear for their sake--the threatened blows.

At that thought he threw his pocket-book on the table, and cried, "Here is the money!" but he knew, at the same time, that he was committing sin, and an invisible weight settled on his heart.
A few hours later, the lamp had burned low, but still Veitel sat with mouth open, eyes fixed, and face flushed, listening to the old man, who was speaking about what most people would vote a tiresome subject--promissory notes.
Later still, the light was gone out; and the stranger, having emptied his bottle of brandy, was asleep on his straw bed, but still Veitel sat and wrote in fancy on the dark walls fraudulent bonds and receipts, while the sweat ran down from his brow; then he opened the balcony door, and, leaning on the railing, saw the water rush by like a mighty stream of ink.

Again he traced bonds on the shadows of the opposite walls, and wrote receipts on the surface of the stream.