EEB SHLOIMEH 347
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 book- binder'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.
