The man who had only required to have so much brains, or a little determination, to become rich, looked like poverty itself: lean, yellow, shrunk, "wept out," and in a cloak that had its only equal in the dressing-gown of the Tishewitz rabbi.
Thereupon came the Maskil.
Of course, he laughed.
"Reb Elyeh, you must have bought the lucky number an hour before the drawing!"
"Listen to his cheek!" says Reb Elyeh. "As if he couldn't remember the story!"
"May my head not ache," swears the Maskil, "for so long as I have forgotten—if ever I heard the lies at all."
"Lies!" retorts Reb Elyeh, much hurt, "is that so? Lies? According to you, other things are lies as well."
I interfere and ask what the story may be.
"You've heard of the Tsaddik of Vorke of blessed memory?" begins Reb Elyeh.
Of course!