Robert stripped off his collar and shirt and began washing. McCall’s protests against the accusations, various questions about Robert’s health and bits of information came gurgling through the soap and water. He talked about Levin. The operation had made him one of the most talked of physicians in Chicago and his profession. And he hadn’t charged a cent. Before he started he insisted that it be done gratis, but that in case he failed he should not be liable in any way. Levin was very busy. He was on the staff of one of the big hospitals and had hardly an evening to himself. He would run up if he had chance, but insisted that Robert come to his home for dinner Friday evening. Friday night was a sort of holiday among the Jews, something like Sunday among Christians, and it was considered especially praiseworthy to feed a guest on this night. Levin’s father still kept up the old custom.
“But won’t it be sort of—funny there?” asked Robert, wiping his face. McCall had taken a position on the bed. “Ah, the old bunk fatigue, I see.”
“Yes, the habit sticks. I usually lie down on the Press Club lounges at noon. It’s such a change from lying in your own bed.”
“Won’t the Levins have queer prayers and ceremonies?”
“Why, no. The old man is orthodox. That is, he isn’t really orthodox, but he still keeps Friday night. You may find him wearing a little skull cap and they may have a candelabra burning on the table—I go there once in a while.”
“Well,” Robert hesitated, “Levin’s all right, but what sort of people will I meet there? You know the Jew you usually meet—little fellows with long beards and hats pulled over their eyes, smelling of garlic and talking with their hands.”
He gave a ludicrous imitation.
“Jews you meet?” repeated McCall. “Where do you meet ’em like that? Maybe they did that fifty years ago. You probably saw Jews like that on the vaudeville stage.”
Robert considered and grinned.
“Well, maybe. It’s probably a little exaggerated, but they do wear beards and—”