THE KING OF SCHNORKERS. 87
nothing but charity. At the entrance was a porch—a pointed Gothic arch of wood supported by two pillars. As Yankelé mounted the three wooden steps, breathing as painfully as if they were three hundred, and wondering if he would ever get merely as far as the 
“'i vish to see de rabbi.’” other side of the door, he was assailed by the temptation to go and dine peacefully at home, and represent to da Costa that he had feasted with the Rabbi. Manasseh would never know, Manasseh had taken no steps to ascertain if he satisfied the test or not. Such carelessness, he told himself in righteous indignation, deserved fitting punishment. But, on the other hand, he recalled Manasseh’s trust in him; Manasseh believed him a man of honour, and the patron’s elevation of soul awoke an answering chivalry in the parasite.
He decided to make the attempt at least, for there would be plenty of time to say he had succeeded, after he had failed.
Vibrating with tremors of nobility as well as of apprehension, Yankelé lifted the knocker. He had no programme, trusting to chance and mother-wit.
Mrs. Remorse Red-herring half opened the door.
“I vish to see de Rabbi,” he said, putting one foot within.
