simon got his way. the authorities reconsidered their decision. but the father would not reconsider his. ignorant of his boy's graceless existence, he fumed at the first fine thing in the boy's life. 'tis a wise father that knows his own child.

mere emulation of his christian comrades, and the fun of the thing, had long ago induced the lad to add volunteering to his other dissipations. but, once in it, the love of arms seized him, and when the call for serious fighters came, some new passion that surprised even himself leapt to his breast—the first call upon an idealism, choked, rather than fed, by a misunderstood judaism. anglicization had done its work; from his schooldays he had felt himself a descendant, not of judas maccab?us, but of nelson and wellington; and now that his brethren were being mowed down by a kopje-guarded foe, his whole soul rose in venomous sympathy. and, mixed with this genuine instinct of devotion to the great cause of country, were stirrings of anticipated adventure, gorgeous visions of charges, forlorn hopes, picked-up shells, redoubts stormed; heritages of 'the pirates of pechili,' and all the military romances that his prayer-book had masked.

he looked every inch an anglo-saxon, in his khaki uniform and his great slouch hat, with his bayonet and his bandolier.

the night before he sailed for south africa there was a service in st. paul's cathedral, for which each volunteer had two tickets. simon sent his to his father. 'the lord mayor will attend in state. [63]i dare say you'll like to see the show,' he wrote flippantly.

'he'll become a christian next,' said s. cohn, tearing the cards in twain.

later, mrs. cohn pieced them together. it was the last chance of seeing her boy.