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'And you're going the day after to-morrow?' six voices spoke together and the rest thought in chorus. They loved him although he came from Heaven, because his credulousness went to their hearts. 'You'll never get anything out of the police, as true as I was down for nine years!' one of them asserted. 'You'll be locked up too, for desertion!' 'And then they'll write your record to Japan.'

Fischerle's eyes filled with tears. He pushed his coffee cup away and began to sob. 'I'll knife those robbers!' they could hear, in between times, 'I'll knife them all!' Some of them were sorry for him; they had a variety of experience, and as many opinions. A famous forger asserted, there was
one
way out: himself. Fischerle could pay half-price because he was only half a man. In this witticism he disguised his sympathy. Not one of them would have spoken a sympathetic word. Fischerle smiled through his tears. 'I know you're a famous man,' he said, 'but you've never made out a passport for Japan, not even you!'

The forger, Passport Joe by name, a man with flowing locks, pitch black, a broken-down painter who, from his artist days, had still preserved his vanity, blazed up and snarled: 'My passes are valid as far as America!'

Fischerle permitted himself to remark that America was not Japan by a long way. He wasn't going to be used as a guinea pig. All of a sudden at the Japanese frontier he'd be picked up and locked up. He wasn't curious to see the inside of a Japanese jail, not curious at all. They talked to him persuasively but he wouldn't hear of it. The men brought up impressive arguments. Passport Joe had often done time, but his clients never; he took so much trouble with other people. He put everything he had into his art; he locked himself in to do the job. Every passport took so much out of him, he had to have a long sleep. They were not mass produced. Each was drawn line by line. Anyone who peeped got his block knocked off. Fischerlc didn't deny it, but he was adamant. Besides, he hadn't got a brass farthing. All this talk was therefore useless. Passport Joe declared himself ready to present him gratis with a first quality special passport if he would only undertake to make use of it. He could reimburse him by advertising the masterpiece when he got to Japan. Fischerle thanked him; he was too small for them to have their little jokes with, they were as strong as giants, he was as feeble as an old woman. Let somebody else burn their silly fingers. They stood him another two black coffees. Passport Joe raged. Fischerle must let him make him a passport or he'd smash his face for him twice over! The others managed to restrain him for the time being; but all of them were exasperated on his account and took his part. Negotiations dragged themselves out for an hour. Joe took each of his friends aside separately and promised them handsome payment. Then their patience gave way. They told Fischerle in so many words that he was their prisoner and would only get his liberty on one condition. The condition was that he would accept and use a forged passport for which he would have to pay nothing as he had no money, anyway. Fischerle yielded to force. But he went on whining. Two heavy-weights accompanied him to the photographer where his picture was taken at the expense of Passport Joe. Let him stir an inch it would be the worse for him. He didn t stir. His escort waited until the plate was developed and printed.

When they got back Passport Joe had already locked himself in. No one was to interrupt him. His most trusted friend pushed the damp photographs in through the crack in the door. He was working like a man possessed. Beads of sweat ran down his streaming hair on to the table and endangered the cleanliness of the passport. But thanks to the dexterous movements of his head it remained unblemished. He took his greatest pleasure in the signatures. He had at his command the official style and the angular pedantry of every single high ranking police officer. His signatures alone were masterpieces. He accompanied their curves with fiery motions of his torso. To the air of a popular song he hummed the words 'How original!' How original! Never done so well before!'

"When he succeeded so well with the signature that it would have taken even him in, he would keep the passport as a souvenir and excuse himself to the waiting client, whom his imagination dragged into the little workshop, with his favourite proverb: 'Every man his own neighbour.' He had several dozen of these sample masterpieces. A little suitcase contained them. When business was bad he would travel with his collection to neighbouring towns. There he would show them off. Veterans of his trade, competitors and pupils were all alike ashamed at their own incapacity. They would send difficult orders straight to him without asking for any commission. To ask for one indeed would have been no better than suicide. He had friends among the strongest and most respected criminals, each of them a king in his profession, but together the ordinary clients of The Baboon. But the disorderliness of Passport Joe had a limit: among the passports in his collection he placed small square tickets, on each the inscription could be read: 'Doing well as dollar prince in America' or 'Owner sends hest wishes from South Africa, land of diamonds' or 'Diving for pearls, thanks to Passport Joe' or 'Why don't you come to Mecca? Here die world throws money out at the window. Allah is Great.' These facts the proprietor selected from letters of appreciation which haunted him in his deepest sleep. They were too valuable for him to show them; their contents alone must suffice, facts speak for themselves. For this reason, after every finished document he drank several glasses of rum, dropped his burning head on to the table, parted his flowing hair with his fingers and dreamed of the future and the deeds of the client in question. Not one of them had yet written to him but he knew from his dreams what they would have written and made use of their careers for the purpose of advertisement. While he was working for Fischerle he was thinking of the admiration which his passport would provoke in Japan. This land was new to him, he had not ventured so far before. He completed two samples at once. The first of these which succeeded inimitably he decided to make an exception of and to hand over to lus client. His mission was after all of exceptional importance.

In the meantime Fischerle was being treated to whatever titbits the meagre buffet of The Baboon could afford. He was given two old smoked sausages all to himself, a portion of stinking cheese and as much stale bread as he wanted, ten cigarettes of The Baboon brand, although he didn't smoke, three small glasses of the
Fin de la Maison
, a tea and rum, a rum without tea, and innumerable pieces of advice for the journey. He must beware of pickpockets. People would do anything to get a passport like the one he was going to have. Some forger or other might easily nip out the photograph, put in another and keep the loveliest passport for die rest of his life. He must be careful not to show it off too much, for the railway station would be alive with envious people. And he must write and tell them his news, somewhere or other Passport Joe had a secret
poste restante
and he was always delighted to receive any testimonial; he treasured them just as the landlady of The Baboon treasured her love letters: no one had ever been allowed to see one. Anyway who would notice from a letter that the writer was a mere hunchback;

Fischerle promised everything; he wouldn't be stingy with thanks, appreciation, news and gratitude. All the same, he was afraid. He couldn't help his shape. Now if only he were called Dr. Fischer instead of plain Fischer the police would respect him at once.

At this all the men in The Baboon called a council. Only one was left on guard by the door to see that the dwarf didn't escape. They took it upon themselves to interrupt their friend at his work in spite of his strict prohibition and to request that he would bestow the title of doctor on Fischerle. If they were polite and called him 'Maestro', Passport Joe wouldn't go wild at once. On this point they were agreed, but not one of them volunteered to carry the message. For if he should go wild whoever interrupted him would certainly not get the commission he had promised, and none of them was fool enough to risk that.

At this moment the landlady came back from her shopping. She liked walking the streets mostly for love, but at times when she wanted to prove to her clients that she was a woman too, for money. The men cheerfully took advantage of her return to break up their meeting. They forgot their intentions and looked on deeply moved as the landlady embraced Fischerle's hump. She overwhelmed him with words of affection; she'd been longing to see him, longing for his dainty little nose, his crooked little legs, she'd longed for his darling, darling chessboard. She'd no dwarfies in her place. She'd heard that the Capitalist, his wife, had grown even fatter. How that woman ate, was it true? Fischerle made no answer and looked steadily in front of him. She fetched her pile of old periodicals of which she was proud — all of them came from Heaven — and laid them in front of her darling. Fischerle never opened one of them and remained obdurate. What was in his dear little heart, such a dear little heart the little darling had; she traced on her palm a circle about a quarter its size.

Until he was made a doctor, said Fischerle, he would be afraid.

The men grew restless. They tried to talk him out of their cowardice. You can't be a doctor they bellowed altogether, cripples can't be doctors. A cripple and a doctor, it can't be done. That would be a fine sight! A doctor has to have a good record. A cripple is a bad record, that goes without saying. Did he know a single cripple who was a doctor or did he not?

'I know one,' said Fischerle, 'I know one. He's smaller than I am, he hasn't any arms, he hasn't any legs. It's a crying shame only to look at him. He writes with his mouth and reads with his eyes. And he's a famous doctor.'

This made little impression on the men. 'That's different altogether,' said one speaking for the rest, 'he must have been a doctor first and then his arms and legs were run over and lost. So it wasn't his fault.'

'Nonsense,' screeched Fischcrle, outraged by these lies. 'He was born that way I tell you. I know what I'm talking about, he came into the world without arms and legs. You're all asses. I'm clever I am, he said to himself, why then shouldn't I be a doctor; So he sat himself down and he studied. Ordinary people study five years, cripples have to go on for twelve. He told me himself, he's a friend of mine, at thirty Tie was a doctor and famous. I play chess with him, he just looks at you and you're well again. His waiting-room's full to bursting. He sits on his little wheel-chair and has two lady secretaries to help him. They help the patients undress, tap their chests and show them to the doctor. All he does is to take one sniffat them and he knows what's wrong at once. Then he calls out 'The next gentleman, please!' The fellow earns a fortune, there isn't another doctor like him. He's very fond of me, he says cripples must stick together; I'm taking lessons from him. He'll turn me into a doctor he's promised. But I'm not to tell anyone because people wouldn't understand. I've known him for ten years, another two years and I'm through with my studies. Then along comes this letter from Japan and I throw the whole thing up. I'd like to go and say good-bye to him for the fellow deserves it, but I don't trust myself. He might try to hold me back and then I'd lose my job in Tokio. I can go abroad on my own. I'm not such a cripple as he is, not by a long way!'

Several of them asked him to show them the man. They were already half convinced. Fischerlc poked his nose into his waistcoat pocket and said: 'Sorry, I haven't got him with me to-day. Usually I keep him there! It's too bad!'

Everyone laughed; their heavy arms and fists shook on the tables and because they were glad to laugh and seldom had the opportunity, they got up all of them, forgot dieir fear and stampeded, eight strong, to the little room where Passport Joe was working. All together so that no one should bear the blame alone they flung open the door and yelled in chorus: 'Don't forget to make him a doctor! He's been studying ten years already!' Passport Joe nodded, 'All the way to Japan'. He was in a good mood to-day.

Fischerle began to realize how drunk he was. Usually spirits made him sad. But to-day he jumped up —his passport and his new rank of doctor were as good as in his pocket — and clutching round the stomach of the landlady of The Baboon, danced her round the café. His long arms crawled snakelike round her neck, they could reach far. He croaked, she waddled. A murderer (but no one knew), pulled an enormous comb out of his pocket, folded over it a piece of tissue paper and blew a soft melody. Out of love for the landlady another one, a simple housebreaker, inexacdy stamped out the rhythm. The others slapped their powerful thighs. A delicate tinkling came from the broken glass panel of the door. Fischerle's legs twisted themselves up still more and the landlady gazed with enchantment at his nose. 'Such a long way!' she shrieked. 'Such a long way!' This her biggest and most beloved nose was going to leave her, was going to go all the way to Japan! The murderer went on playing and thinking about her, they all knew her intimately and they all owed her a lot. Inside Passport Joe chanted sweetly, his tenor voice was popular and he looked forward to celebrating the evening; he had been working for three hours, in another he would surely have done. All the men were singing but none of them knew the right words for the song, so that each one sang his own heart's desire. 'The winning number,'hummed one and another breathed, 'Sweetheart'. 'A nugget like a football' was what the third wanted and the fourth an unending opium pipe. 'Good morning, boys!' somebody was humming under a moustache. In his youth the moustache's proprietor had been a schoolmaster and he was sorry for the pension he had lost. But mosdy there were threats and all of them would have liked to emigrate, each on his own, just to show the others. Fischerle's head sank lower and lower; his own accompaniment to the song 'Checkmate, checkmate' was lost in the general din.