Dozens of these men pass under your eyes every day, my American friend, too absorbed in their honest affairs to notice the looks of suspicion which you cast at them, the repugnance with which you shrink from their touch.

You see them shuffle from door to door with a basket of spools and buttons, or bending over the sizzling irons in a basement tailor shop, or rummaging in your ash can, or moving a pushcart from curb to curb, at the command of the burly policeman.

"The Jew peddler!" you say, and dismiss him from your premises and from your thoughts, never dreaming that the sordid drama of his days may have a moral that concerns you.
What if the creature with the untidy beard carries in his bosom his citizenship papers?
What if the cross-legged tailor is supporting a boy in college who is one day going to mend your state constitution for you?
What if the ragpicker's daughters are hastening over the ocean to teach your children in the public schools?
Think, every time you pass the greasy alien on the street, that he was born thousands of years before the oldest native American; and he may have something to communicate to you, when you two shall have learned a common language.
Remember that his very physiognomy is a cipher the key to which it behooves you to search for most diligently.
* * * * * By the time we joined my father, he had surveyed many avenues of approach toward the coveted citadel of fortune.

One of these, heretofore untried, he now proposed to essay, armed with new courage, and cheered on by the presence of his family.

In partnership with an energetic little man who had an English chapter in his history, he prepared to set up a refreshment booth on Crescent Beach.