McKinley's Friend
SHORTLY after the close of the Spanish-American War, a journalist desiring to secure some information about a returning hero hastened through East Broadway, New York, to interview the proprietor of a daily Jargon paper. It was a delicate task, requiring tact and tenacity. Being a woman and a Jewess, both traits were the natural attributes of Leah Bernard.
The enchanting autumn day, the sun-warmed air, and a quick walk combined to bestow upon her a glowing fresh beauty unusual to her. The elasticity of her step, and her rapid movements, as she wound her way in and out through the passing throng soon brought her to her destination. Ascending the few well-worn stone steps she entered a narrow, dark hall, knocked at the office door and, receiving no answer, she turned the knob and stepped briskly over the threshold.
A man seated at a table in the center of the square room was the only occupant of the place. He was busily writing. A well-worn silken tile shaded the upper part of his face, partially obscured by his bended position as he wielded his pen with savage haste. Noisy as was the entrance of the woman, the man at the desk seemed unaware of her presence, and even as she passed close to him he betrayed no knowledge of her proximity. Apparently his work absorbed his entire attention. Not a glance followed her as she walked to the window and took a seat.
Leah Bernard was an extraordinarily active woman. Her life has been an endless chain of plans and schemes, some of which had been realized through untiring mental and physical work. If her hands were forced to remain idle, her mind did double duty. Now, for want of other occupation she contemplated the scribbling stranger. Time after time her eyes sought the grave black figure; something in his face and attitude challenged her curiosity. She fancied the sharp, clear profile familiar, and for moments gazed fixedly at the man. Finally, she felt convinced that she had never before beheld the pale, wrinkled, sharp-featured face. She concluded that he simply bore a resemblance to a racial and intellectual type of Jews spiritually towering above the Ghetto toilers. The man was of slender build and sallow complexion; his sunken cheeks were framed by a grizzly beard. His black coat glossed by time and brush betrayed a venerable garment vainly striving to conquer age by cleanliness. During the lady's rather rude inspection, the man never raised his eyes from the manuscript, adding page after page of hastily-written matter.
The situation became monotonous. The observant eyes of the woman turned from the oblivious writer to the shifting masses in the street. Even the simplest and the humblest creatures possessed an interest for Leah Bernard. The living fascinated her more than the immortals of whom she read in Greek and Latin, and the puniest street-arab was to her more attractive than the Nymphs of marble about which she wrote. She loved the earth and human beings on and of it. Hence her glance riveted with delight upon a crowd of Jewish newsboys