“Can’t you write your inspiration out in the evening?” faltered Moisheh. “If you could only bring in a few dollars a week to help pay ourselves out to the instalment man.”
Berel looked at his brother with compassionate tolerance. “What are to you the things of the soul? All you care for is money—money—money! You’d want me to sell my soul, my poetry, my creative fire—to hand you a few dirty dollars.”
The postman’s whistle and the cry, “Berel Cinski!”
Moisheh hurried downstairs and brought back a large return envelope.
“Another one of those letters back,” deplored the mother, untactfully. “You’re only for making the post office rich with the stamps from Moisheh’s blood money.”
“Dammit!” Defeat enraged the young poet to the point of brutality. “Stop nagging me and mixing in with things you don’t understand!” He struck the rude table with his clenched fist. “It’s impossible to live with you thickheads—numskulls—money-grubbing worms.”
He threw on his hat and coat and paused for a moment glowering in the doorway. “Moisheh,” he demanded, “give me a quarter for car fare. I have to go uptown to the library.” Silently the big brother handed him the money, and Berel flung himself out of the room.
The door had no sooner closed on the poet than the doctor sauntered into the room. After a hasty “Hallo!” he turned to Moisheh. “I’ve had a wonderful opportunity offered me—but I can’t take advantage of it.”
“What!” cried Moisheh, his face brightening.
“My landlord invited me to his house to-night, to meet his only daughter.”