Yes, indeed, it was a very crest-fallen youth who accompanied Arthur Ripley back to New York that bright summer afternoon, and who toward bed-time that evening stole quietly into Mr. Finkelstein's shop. It was hard work under the circumstances to return to Mr. Finkelstein's. I had to swallow my pride in doing so, and it proved to be an exceedingly unpalatable dose. I had expected to return a young prince, in princely style, to dazzle my plebeian friends with my magnificence, and overwhelm them with my bounteous generosity; and now, in point of fact, I came back poorer than I had gone away, a beggar and a dependent, one who would be homeless and penniless if they should refuse to take him in. It was a dreadful come-down. I think, if there had been anywhere else for me to go, I should never have returned to Mr. Finkelstein's at all, it mortified my vanity so cruelly to have to do it. I felt as though I should like to seek out some obscure hiding-place in the remotest quarter of the world, and bury myself there forever from the sight of men. “O, Rip!” I cried, “I should just like to bag my head.”
Of course, as I opened the shop door, the bell above it must needs tinkle; and in response to this summons Mr. Finkelstein himself issued from the parlor.
“What, Kraikory!” he exclaimed at sight of me. “Back so soon? Ach! I tought it was a customer. Vail, it's you yourself, and no mistake about it.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, “we came back on the train this afternoon.”
“Ach, so? You came back on de train dis aifternoon? Vail, vail, valk in, set down, make yourself to home. Vail, Kraik-ory, I'm real glaid to see you. Vail, it's all right, I suppose? You got de money, hey? Vail, was it more or less as you expected? Was it fifty tousand, or a hundred, or maybe only terventy-fife? Vail, set down and tell me all about it.”
“N-no, sir,” I began, rather tremulously; “it—we—there—there was a mistake. She—I mean to say my grandmother—she didn't leave any money, after all. She didn't have any to leave. She was quite poor, instead of rich, and—and my Uncle Peter, he supported her. He owned the house and everything. He had bought it from her, and she had sent the money to France. So—I—that is—you see”—I broke down. I could get no further.
“Ach, dere, dere, Kraikory,” cried Mr. Finkelstein, as my emotion betrayed itself, and he laid his hand caressingly upon my shoulder; “dere, dere, don't you go feel baid about it, my dear little poy.” Then he caught himself up. “Excuse me, Kraikory; I didn't mean to call you a little poy; I forgot. But don't you go feel baid about it, all de same. You ain't no vorse off as you was before already. Put it down to experience, Kraikory, sharsh it to experience. It's allright. You got a comfortable home here by me. You needn't feel so awful about it. Come, sheer up, Kraikory. Don't tink about it no more. Come along inside mit me, and Henrietta will get you somedings to eat. We ain't got no faitted caif to kill in your honor, Kraikory, but we got some of de finest liver sowsage in de United States of America; and ainyhow, Kraikory, veal is a fearful dry meat. Ach, dere, dere, for mercy's sake, don't you feel baid. I get off a shoke shust on purpose to make you laif, and you don't naifer notice it. Ach, Kraikory, don't feel baid. I simply hate to see you feel baid, Kraikory; I simply cain't staind it. I give ten tousand tollars right out of my own pocket sooner as see you feel baid, Kraikory; I'm so fond of you, don't you understand?”
My heart melted all at once like ice in sunshine. Tears sprang to my eyes. “Oh! my dear, dear Mr. Finkelstein,” I sobbed, “you are so good to me. Oh! can—can you ever—for—forgive the—the way I've acted? I—I'm—I'm so sorry for it.”
“My kracious, Kraikory, don't talk like dot. If you talk like dot, you make me aict so foolish I be ashamed to show my face. You make me cry like a raikular old voman, Kraikory; you aictually vill. Ach, dere I go. Ach, my kracious! Ach! I cain't help it. Ach, what—what an old fool I am.... Kraikory—my boy—my son—come here, Kraikory—come here to me. O, Kraikory! I loaf you like a fader. O, Kraikory! you know what I tought? I tought I loast you foraifer, Kraikory. O, Kraikory! I'm so glaid to haif you back. Ach, Kraikory, God is good.” The tears rolled downward from his dear old eyes, and pattered like rain-drops upon my cheeks. He had clasped me in his arms.
From that hour I took up my old place at Mr. Finkelstein's, in a humbler, healthier, and, on the whole, happier frame of mind than I had known for many a long day before. My heart had been touched, and my conscience smitten, by his loving kindness.