LEYDEN and I paused in our conversation and, leaning our backs against the steamer’s rail, listened in some amusement to an argument between a group of our fellow-passengers. That is to say, I was thoughtless enough to be amused; Leyden listened with his usual quiet consideration.
At Paramaribo there had taken passage for New York a wiry little Jew named Gonzalez. He was a cheerful little man, who was pleasing from his sincere politeness. The other passengers, especially the Dutch, had rather made a butt of his provincialism, and it seemed to me that their attitude toward him was edged with a bit of malice. Apparently they resented his claim as a fellow-countryman.
The argument grew warmer; I could not follow it, as they spoke Dutch, but it was easy to see that Gonzalez was growing angry; the others were laughingly sarcastic. Presently the Jew, whose shrill voice had risen in key, said something bitter and walked rapidly away, and as he passed us I saw that his thin face was working with emotion. The others frowned; one gave a short laugh, then looked at us a bit sheepishly. Leyden made a little gurgle in his throat, a sound which carried disapproval. I glanced at him inquiringly.
“They are baiting him because he claims to be a Dutchman,” said Leyden. “It is a shame; he is a good little man. He told me yesterday why he was going to New York. It seems that he has a half-sister with Pott’s disease of the spine, and he is going to consult a specialist to determine whether anything can be done for her, also how much it will cost. Probably there is not a person on this ship whose errand is so unselfish. Ach! They are a much maligned people, the Jews!”
For several moments he drew vigorously at his big porcelain pipe. “Doctor,” he asked, presently, “did you ever meet Isidore Rosenthal?”
“No,” said I. “Who is he?”
“A Jew, a power in the West Indies. This little chap reminds me of him—because he is so different. There are three people in the West Indies who are worth knowing. One is Mallock, another is Arjolas and the third is Isidore Rosenthal.”
Leyden stirred the ashes of his pipe, while I waited. Gonzalez, who passed near me, had swallowed his pique and was talking in bad English to a Portuguese adventuress. “Yes, Madame,” he was saying, “I have traveled a great deal. I have been to Demerara, to Trinidad and to Venezuela. Now I am going to New York. If a man has the means it is his duty to travel; he should see the world, improve his mind—and I, I have the means. I own a chemist’s shop in Paramaribo——”
“Rosenthal,” said Leyden, “is a Czechian Jew, the most malignant type; aggressive as a hotel child. When he dies, if the Hebrew heaven is not up to his ideas, the Christians will have a hard time to keep him out of theirs. He is a big-boned, muscular, hairy brute, with the push of a peccary and the vitality of a dose of Chagres fever. His present occupation is selling the Santo Dominicans expensive things which they don’t want. As soon as he gets all of their money he will go somewhere else.”