Shapiro placed himself in front of Berel and said with businesslike directness:
“I’ll advance you two hundred bucks on this song, if you’ll put a kick in it.”
Two hundred dollars! The suddenness of the overwhelming offer left Berel stunned and speechless.
“Money—ach, money! To get a breath of release from want!” he thought. “Just a few weeks away from Hanneh Breineh’s cursing and swearing! A chance to be quiet and alone—a place where I can have a little beauty!”
Shapiro, through narrowed lids, watched the struggle that was going on in the boy. He called for his secretary.
“Write out a contract,” he ordered. “Words by Berel Pinsky—my melody.”
Then he turned to the poet, who stood nervously biting his lips.
“If this song goes over, it’ll mean a big piece of change for you. You get a cent and a half on every copy. A hit sometimes goes a million copies. Figure it out for yourself. I’m not counting the mechanical end of it—phonograph records—pianola rolls—hurdy-gurdies.”
At the word “hurdy-gurdy” an aching fear shot through the poet’s heart. His pale face grew paler as he met the smooth smile of the composer.
“Only to get a start,” he told himself, strengthening his resolve to sell his poem with an equal resolve never to do so again.