They thought he had gone suddenly mad, and joined in the lamentation, till one of them saw his skin red and parboiled and raising big blisters. Then they ran with a common accord for their own cold-water pails, and pursued him, seeking to dash their contents over him.
But the tailor, frantic with pain, thought, if he thought at all, that he was going to be killed, and yelled louder than ever. His companions’ shouts, joined to his, were heard in the street, and there promptly gathered a wailing throng that echoed the “Weh! Weh!” from within, and exchanged opinions between their laments as to who was being killed, and why.
Policeman Schulem came just in time to prevent a general panic and restore peace.
Schulem is a valuable man on the East Side. His name alone is enough. It signifies peace—peace in the language of Ludlow street. The crowd melted away, and the tailor was taken to the hospital, bewailing his bad luck.
The bath-house keeper was an indignant and injured man. His business was hurt.
“How did it happen?” he said. “It happened because he is a schlemiehl. Teufel! he’s worse than a schlemiehl; he is a chammer.”
Which accounts for it, of course, and explains everything.