“The charities? A black year on them!” came a chorus of angry voices.
“All my enemies should have to go to the charities for help.”
“Woe to anyone who falls into the charities’ hands!”
“One poor man with a heart can help more than the charities with all their money.”
Mr. Sopkin hammered on his chopping-block, his face purple with excitement. “Weiber! with talk alone you can’t fill up the pot.”
“Takeh! Takeh!” Eager faces strained forward. “Let’s put ourselves together for a collection.”
“I’m not yet making Rockefeller’s millions from the butcher business, but still, here’s my beginning for good luck.” And Mr. Sopkin tossed a dollar bill into the basket on the counter.
A woman, a ragged shawl over her head, clutched a quarter in her gaunt hand. “God is my witness! To tear out this from my pocket is like tearing off my right hand. I need every cent to keep the breath in the bodies of my kinder, but how can we let such a holy Jew fall in the street?”
“My enemies should have to slave with such bitter sweat for every penny as me.” Hannah Hayyeh flung out her arms still wet with soapsuds and kissed the ten-cent piece she dropped into the collection.
Mr. Sopkin walked to the sidewalk and shook the basket in front of the passers-by. “Take your hand out from your pocket! Take your bite away from your mouth! Who will help the poor if not the poor?”