"He say he got no knife at all. He cannot make hole like dat wit'
his finger."

"Well, we shall see about that," said the Sergeant. "Now where is
that other man?" He turned toward the corner. The corner was empty.
"Where has he gone?" said the Sergeant, peering through the crowd
for a black-whiskered face.

The man was nowhere to be seen. The Sergeant was puzzled and
angered. He lined the men up around the walls, but the man was
not to be found. As each man uttered his name, there were always
some to recognize and to corroborate the information. One man alone
seemed a stranger to all in the company. He was clean shaven, but
for a moustache with ends turned up in military manner, and with
an appearance of higher intelligence than the average Galician.

"Ask him his name," said the Sergeant.

The man replied volubly, and Jacob interpreted.

"His name, Rudolph Polkoff, Polak man. Stranger, come to dis town
soon. Know no man here. Some man bring him here to dance."

The Sergeant kept his keen eye fastened on the man while he talked.

"Well, he looks like a smart one. Come here," he said, beckoning
the stranger forward into the better light.

The man came and stood with his back to Rosenblatt.