Canary birds by the hundreds made the shop a trying one for
sensitive ears. There were no monkeys. Koschinsky, whose heart was as
soft as butter, though he was a formidable revolutionist--so he swore
over at Schwab's--declared that monkeys were made in the image of
tyrannical humans. He would have none of them. Parrots? There were
enough of the breed around him, he told the gossiping women, who, with
their _scheitels_, curved noses, and shining eyes, lent to the quarter
its Oriental quality.
It was in Koschinsky's place that Arthur first encountered Yetta. He was
always prowling about the East Side in search of sociological prey, and
the modest little woman with her intelligent and determined face
attracted him strongly. They fell into easy conversation near a cage of
canaries, and the acquaintance soon bloomed into a friendship. A week
after the raid on Schwab's, Arthur, very haggard and nervous, wandered
into Koschinsky's. The old man greeted him:--
"Hu! So you've just come down from the Island! Well--how did you like it
up there? Plenty water--eh?" The sarcasm was too plain, and the young
man, mumbling some sort of an answer, turned to go.
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