A Heart for the Gods of Mexico

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“Ommernous, that’s what it is, ommernous, every bit of it is ommernous.”

Six o’clock.… The tall man with the Jewish nose, and lean as he was tall, and with clothes that were too large for him, avoided looking at his reflection in the glassy water of the Frog Pond — which he was circling for the fourth time in Boston Common — but thought of it just the same, and, as always, with cynical amusement. He enjoyed walking as close as possible to the pond’s edge, along the familiar granite curbing, and enjoyed the notion of his image there, stalking angularly among budding boughs against a twilight May sky. Blomberg the crane, he thought. Blomberg the derrick — Blom the steam shovel.

“Ommernous,” he muttered again (thinking at the same time how characteristic it was of Key to be late); “need money, always need money, and as soon as they need money I’m supposed to find it; what’s the good of being a Jew if you can’t find money! And even to bargaining with a ticket agent, by God, and him with the name of Albumblatt.…”

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