It was only when he straightened up after setting the can in its rightful place and looked up the street at the cans set in their proper places before every house – only then did he grow confused. For he noticed with a start that garbage was speckling the lawn of Mr Newman’s house, too, and Mr Newman’s garbage can was also lying on its side.

Mr Finkelstein observed this carefully, studied the facts. Could it be, he wondered, that his wife had always been right when she claimed that Newman was strictly a Jewish name? That he did not believe, although he did not know why. He simply had always taken it for granted that Mr Newman who worked for that big company was not a Jew, although lately …

Anyhow he had work to do, so he opened his store, pulled down the transom over the door, moved his wooden stand outside, and opened the package of papers that the truck always left on the sidewalk. He had hardly begun to cut the twine when he noticed a little edge of yellow paper sticking out from under the top Times. He drew it out. It had writing on it. His easily aroused temper banged against his temples as he read. Then folding the yellow sheet carefully he tucked it into his shirt pocket. But he put it so that a little of it stuck out.

After distributing the newspapers neatly over his stand, he put the stopper under the door of the store, brought out his little camp chair, and sat beside the stand, ready for the morning trade. After a few minutes and a few paper sales, he adjusted the yellow sheet so that it stuck out of his pocket a little more.

Sitting there he looked Buddha-like. His wife cooked too well for his own good. He was only forty-two, but already his jowls were heavy. He had just reached the time of his life when he realized the uselessness of trying to keep his belt from sliding under his belly. But he had very broad shoulders and thick arms and wrists and he walked lightly on his tiny feet. Even at this early hour, and before breakfast, he smoked a cigar which never left his mouth. This morning was cool and the sky wonderfully blue and the clouds were fair and white, and he let his soft underchin rest on his chest, folded his arms, and allowed the early sun to rise upon the back of his warm neck.

He always sat still. He had the ability. The garbage on Mr Newman’s lawn glistened in the sun as he watched. And at eight o’clock, as usual, Mr Newman came out of his house to go to work. Mr Finkelstein observed how he stopped when he saw the garbage. He watched him start back into his house and hesitate again on the porch steps. He saw him turn toward the garbage again and after a moment’s pause start picking up some of it. Then he saw Mr Newman drop the garbage and wipe his hands on the empty burlap bag, and take the pail from the gutter onto the curb.