MANASSEH
It was a stifling summer evening. I had just come home from work, taken off my coat, unbuttoned my waistcoat, and sat down panting by the window of my little room.
There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for my reply, in came a woman with yellow hair, and very untidy in her dress.
I judged from her appearance that she had not come from a distance. She had nothing on her head, her sleeves were tucked up, she held a ladle in her hand, and she was chewing something or other.
"I am Manasseh's wife," said she.
"Manasseh Gricklin's?" I asked.
"Yes," said my visitor, "Gricklin's, Gricklin's."
I hastily slipped on a coat, and begged her to be seated.
Manasseh was an old friend of mine, he was a capmaker, and we worked together in one shop.
And I knew that he lived somewhere in the same tenement as myself, but it was the first time I had the honor of seeing his wife.
"Look here," began the woman, "don't you work in the same shop as my husband?"
"Yes, yes," I said.
"Well, and now tell me," and the yellow-haired woman gave a bound like a hyena, "how is it I see you come home from work with all other respectable people, and my husband not? And it isn't the first time, either,
