the manner of the gypsies. We had driven a feeble stake into the sand.
The jealous Atlantic, in conspiracy with the Sunday law, had torn it
out. We must seek our luck elsewhere.

In Polotzk we had supposed that "America" was practically synonymous
with "Boston." When we landed in Boston, the horizon was pushed back,
and we annexed Crescent Beach. And now, espying other lands of promise,
we took possession of the province of Chelsea, in the name of our
necessity.

In Chelsea, as in Boston, we made our stand in the wrong end of the
town. Arlington Street was inhabited by poor Jews, poor Negroes, and a
sprinkling of poor Irish. The side streets leading from it were occupied
by more poor Jews and Negroes. It was a proper locality for a man
without capital to do business. My father rented a tenement with a store
in the basement. He put in a few barrels of flour and of sugar, a few
boxes of crackers, a few gallons of kerosene, an assortment of soap of
the "save the coupon" brands; in the cellar a few barrels of potatoes,
and a pyramid of kindling-wood; in the showcase, an alluring display of
penny candy. He put out his sign, with a gilt-lettered warning of
"Strictly Cash," and proceeded to give credit indiscriminately. That was
the regular way to do business on Arlington Street. My father, in his
three years' apprenticeship, had learned the tricks of many trades. He
knew when and how to "bluff." The legend of "Strictly Cash" was a
protection against notoriously irresponsible customers; while none of
the "good" customers, who had a record for paying regularly on Saturday,
hesitated to enter the store with empty purses.

If my father knew the tricks of the trade, my mother could be counted on
to throw all her talent and tact into the business. Of course she had no