If I admired the soda fountain and the sausage chains, I almost worshipped the partner, Mr. Wilner.  I was content to stand for an hour at a time watching him make potato chips.  In his cook’s cap and apron, with a ladle in his hand and a smile on his face, he moved about with the greatest agility, whisking his raw materials out of nowhere, dipping into his bubbling kettle with a flourish, and bringing forth the finished product with a caper.  Such potato chips were not to be had anywhere else on Crescent Beach.  Thin as tissue paper, crisp as dry snow, and salt as the sea—­such thirst-producing, lemonade-selling, nickel-bringing potato chips only Mr. Wilner could make.  On holidays, when dozens of family parties came out by every train from town, he could hardly keep up with the demand for his potato chips.  And with a waiting crowd around him our partner was at his best.  He was as voluble as he was skilful, and as witty as he was voluble; at least so I guessed from the laughter that frequently drowned his voice.  I could not understand his jokes, but if I could get near enough to watch his lips and his smile and his merry eyes, I was happy.  That any one could talk so fast, and in English, was marvel enough, but that this prodigy should belong to our establishment was a fact to thrill me.  I had never seen anything like Mr. Wilner, except a wedding jester; but then he spoke common Yiddish.  So proud was I of the talent and good taste displayed at our stand that if my father beckoned to me in the crowd and sent me on an errand, I hoped the people noticed that I, too, was connected with the establishment.

And all this splendor and glory and distinction came to a sudden end.  There was some trouble about a license—­some fee or fine—­there was a storm in the night that damaged the soda fountain and other fixtures—­there was talk and consultation between the houses of Antin and Wilner—­and the promising partnership was dissolved.  No more would the merry partner gather the crowd on the beach; no more would the twelve young Wilners gambol like mermen and mermaids in the surf.  And the less numerous tribe of Antin must also say farewell to the jolly seaside life; for men in such humble business as my father’s carry their families, along with their other earthly goods, wherever they go, after the manner of the gypsies.  We had driven a feeble stake into the sand.  The jealous Atlantic, in conspiracy with the Sunday law, had torn it out.  We must seek our luck elsewhere.

In Polotzk we had supposed that “America” was practically synonymous with “Boston.”  When we landed in Boston, the horizon was pushed back, and we annexed Crescent Beach.  And now, espying other lands of promise, we took possession of the province of Chelsea, in the name of our necessity.