"Money again?" Chanon winced. "How long has it been since I sent three rubles with you?"

"He says that it's already the end of the term and you only gave seven rubles. There are eight more rubles coming to him," said Shloimke. "And he wants them!" he concluded, angrily scratching his head.

"Quiet! Just don't upset yourself, my treasure," Chanon said nervously, reminding himself that it really was a long time since he had sent any money. He became silent and in his despair began to tug at his beard, as if he were trying to get some advice out of it: Well, my dear beard, what do you think of this catastrophe?

Without waiting for an answer he began to rub his hand over his face, and when this did not help either, he started lifting his cap off his head and putting it back again, lifting it off and putting it on again. For a long while he held it in his hand. Then he replaced it. Finally, after he had done this several more times, his lined face brightened and his eyes lit up. Pleasantly, but without looking at anyone, he announced, "Tomorrow we sell a bag of seed."

"Then will you give me money tomorrow?" Shloimke asked.

"Not tomorrow, my son. But the day after."

"The day after tomorrow! The day after tomorrow!" Shloimke said in a tantrum. He could see himself marching right into school, looking his teacher in the eyes, and saying, "I didn't get it."

"Silence!" Chanon said grimly. "I told you the day after tomorrow. And the day after tomorrow is what I mean. When I say something, it's said."

"Really, Shloimke," his mother joined in, "you make such terrible faces for nothing. Where's the fire? Your father said the day after tomorrow, so he means the day after tomorrow."

Shloimke reconsidered, decided it was not so bad, and promptly forgot all about it. He demanded his supper.

"And what will you want next?" his mother said half jokingly."First it's money for the teacher, now it's supper. Maybe you ought to go out and earn some money."

"I'm too little."

"Too little"—his mother sighed—"a boy of twelve." She sighed again, without knowing quite why.

The next morning after his prayers Chanon went to the yard and opened the bin where the grain was kept. He looked over the bag of seed lying tranquilly in the corner. There were two other grain bins, both empty, and they seemed to regard Chanon with displeasure; it was a long time since he had something to put into them.

Chanon thrust his hand into the first bin and took out a handful of grain. "Beautiful," he said aloud. "Certainly first grade." Keeping the seeds in his palm, he stirred them thoughtfully with his finger: Not that it didn't cost me plenty. I paid good money for it. But try and convince the merchant Levine. He'll sniff and say "inferior merchandise" and cut off my nose and ears in the bargain. A merchant is a merchant.

Chanon sighed and began to calculate. The bag of seed cost him an average of seven gulden a pood. Even if the merchant gave him seven gulden and ten groschen, the most he could realize from a hundred pood would be a hundred times ten groschen, which came to only five rubles. Interest on the money came to two rubles, which would leave him, all in all, a clear profit of precisely three rubles. He sighed again.

He had to make at least ten rubles from this seed. He pulled his beard, rubbed his face, stirred the seed. Then he raised his eyes slowly to the hayloft of the barn. The hayloft held the answer. There were three sacks of cheap seed up there, bought at only one gulden a pood. To mix in three or four pood of this poorer seed after the merchant had examined the good kind, of course would bring him a few rubles profit.

But that was stealing. And Chanon wanted to be an honest businessman. Chanon stood in fear of God, of himself.

At that moment, however, he feared himself a little more than God. For his deed God might perhaps pardon him. God knew it was not his fault; poverty made him do it. But Chanon was less merciful. Instead of forgiving himself for such a deed, he would let it gnaw at him forever: What did you do, Chanon? Eh? Was it nice? Was it good? Was it honest? Think it over, Chanon.

Chanon tore his eyes away from the hayloft where the cheap grain was stored. He had decided to do the honest thing.

"Honest," he cried. "Honest! Honest!"

He locked the bin and went to call the merchant.

Levine the merchant, a big Jew with a red face and little black eyes, rolled up his sleeves and shoved his arms into the bottommost corner of the bin.

But Chanon could not resist praising his merchandise even before it was examined. "First grade. There's nothing to discuss!"

The merchant was annoyed. A little worm like Chanon trying to grade the seed before Levine himself had examined it! He spoke coldly. "We'll soon see what grade it is."

Chanon's heart pounded with terror. Suppose the merchant decided the seed was not first grade. A robber of a Jew, he thought, asking himself the best way to soften him up with a good word.

"You, Pani Levine, no one has to tell. You always know, Pani Levine. All by yourself. If only I had a tenth of the seed you ship to Königsberg."

"Yes, indeed, brother, I don't blame you for wanting it," Levine said smugly, poking around in the seed. "But what would you have done with so much money?"

"Heh, heh, heh," Chanon laughed bitterly. "I'd know what to do. I'd trade, like you, with Königsberg."

"Grade of the seeds, two and a half. Two at the most," Levine said abruptly.

Chanon's agonized smile vanished. He was barely able to stand on his feet. "Pani Levine, what are you saying?"

"Exactly what you heard," the merchant replied coldly.

"And what are you paying me?" Chanon asked in a strangled voice.

"Ninety-eight kopecks, and I'm being generous. Grain is down now," Levine said calmly.

"Pani Levine," Chanon said pitifully, "you want me to lose money?" He longed to pierce him with a knife. Robber! he wanted to scream. You big fat robber!

"I'm not going to take a loss either," Levine said dryly, turning to leave.

"Add a little something," Chanon pleaded. Anyone but Levine could have heard the tears in his voice. Levine returned to the bin, rolled up the sleeves of his black coat again, and reached down to the bottom. "All right. You have two more kopecks—an even ruble. When you stick to somebody, you're like tar!"

"You're not giving me more?"

Levine scowled and failed to answer. His face frightened Chanon. If Chanon did anything, Levine would refuse to buy from him. With a glance at the hayloft where the cheap grain lay, Chanon gathered up his strength and tore the words from his mouth. "Of course, for you. When will you take it?"

"I'll send my men up with drays at four o'clock."

"Good," Chanon agreed, looking up at the hayloft with trepidation.

Just as the merchant was about to leave he cast his little black eyes around the bin. "But," he warned, "don't try to palm off any of the cheap seed on me. You people love to do that."

Chanon turned white, and to keep the merchant from guessing what was on his mind he began to swear. "I? May God keep me safe from such things. What are you saying?" Then, sensing that the merchant could read his mind, and anxious to dispel even the slightest suspicion, he forced himself to blurt out, "Here! You can even take my key. Keep it yourself until four o'clock."

Levine was pleased. "Wouldn't hurt at all. You're an honest man, but business, you know, business!"

"With the greatest of pleasure! With the greatest of pleasure!" Chanon cried out, sick with despair that he had ever proposed such a thing. His face burned, his temples pounded, and only the most violent effort kept him from screaming, Murder! Murder! Murder!

With trembling hands he locked the door, removed the key, and with a smile that could pierce a rib he turned to Levine. "Now the key is yours."

"Fine, fine," Levine said, hiding the key deep in his pocket.

"But, Pani Levine," Chanon said tearfully, "just try not to be late. Sometimes we need things in the bin . . . ." But Levine was gone. Chanon heaped reproaches on himself. Idiot, he thought, idiot! What did you do? You made yourself a pauper. Where will you get the cheder money now?

Chanon wrung his hands, seeing spots before his eyes. Remaining by the barn, he began to look for some way to get back in. But it was closed off on every side, except for a long narrow window without a pane. He stared a this little window, measuring it with his eye. He wondered if he could get himself through it. But it was impossible. Thin as he was, he was still too big for that tiny window.

At two o'clock Shloimke came back from cheder. "Well, Papa, are you giving the rebbe money tomorrow?"

Chanon did not answer. He narrowed his eyes and, deep in thought, stared at Shloimke.

"Papa, why are you looking at me like that?" Shloimke asked, laughing uneasily. He shoved his cap down and without looking at his father spoke again. "Well, tell me, will you have it?"

"Shloimke! You want to do something clever?"

"What?"

"Come into the yard. I want to tell you something."

Wondering, Shloimke followed his father into the yard. "What is it, Papa?"

Chanon led him to the barn and, pointing to the narrow window which was not very high up, said, "Could you creep through that little window?"

"What a question!" Shloimke said happily, realizing that his own father was encouraging him to be bad.

"Then crawl in, my precious," Chanon said, feeling ashamed for both of them. "And after that, climb up to the hayloft. The sacks of cheap seed are up there, you see"

"I know! I know! The kind you mix in with the good stuff. I saw you do it once," Shloimke cried out, proud of his knowledge.

"Don't yell, stupid boy," Chanon said angrily. "Crawl up to the hayloft, untie a sack, and pour the seeds into the grain bin. But you have to mix it well after that. Can you do it?"

"Sure, I'll mix it with a shovel."

"So creep in. But be careful."

Shloimke pulled himself up and quick as a cat disappeared through the window. Chanon stood guard, facing the street. His heart pounded as he pictured Levine coming along with the key in his hand. After five minutes he went over to the little window. "Well, what's happening?"

"I'm mixing!" Shloimke cried out happily. "I've poured in two sacks already."

Trembling, Chanon called softly through the little window, "Robber! I'll kill you. You're ruining the seeds."

"I'm mixing it all up," Shloimke yelled. "You won't be able to tell the difference."

Well, thought Chanon, a child is a child. A painful elation shot through him. He tried to calm himself. After all, two sacks are two sacks. Maybe now there'll be a profit. What can one do?

After ten minutes Shloimke was shouting through the little window, "All done, Papa!"

"Well mixed?"

"Absolutely!"

A sweating Shloimke crawled out. His cheeks, usually pale and thin, were red, and his eyes sparkled. His whole young body showed his pride in having been trusted by his father to do the job. Taking a few seeds from his pocket, he showed them to Chanon. "Good?" he asked with satisfaction.

The devil take him, Chanon thought. He's good. That murderer doesn't trust anyone, even takes away the key. He's a thief himself.

Shloimke looked at his father in bewilderment, unable to understand what disturbed him. "Well," he said, "will you have money for the rebbe tomorrow?"

"Naturally, my son," his father answered with assurance. "I'm giving you five rubles tomorrow."

And the next day Shloimke flew to cheder with a new five ruble note in his pocket. The teacher pinched him on the cheek and called him a good boy. In his happiness Shloimke wanted to tell him about his great accomplishment. But he remembered that his father had warned him for the love of God not to tell anyone.

So Shloimke sat himself down to learn God's Torah, holding yesterday's secret deep in his young heart, where it pressed to be let out.

But how differently the secret pressed on his father, Chanon.