"It sounds better so," said the Shalotten Shammos authoritatively. "Preachers are expected to have heavy families dependent upon them. It would sound lies if I told the truth."
This was an argument after the Maggid's own heart, but it did not quite convince him.
"But they will send and make inquiries," he murmured.
"Then your family are in Poland; you send your money over there."
"That is true," said the Maggid feebly. "But still it likes me not."
"You leave it to me," said the Shalotten Shammos impressively. "A shamefaced man cannot learn, and a passionate man cannot teach. So said Hillel. When you are in the pulpit I listen to you; when I have my pen in hand, do you listen to me. As the proverb says, if I were a Rabbi the town would burn. But if you were a scribe the letter would burn. I don't pretend to be a Maggid, don't you set up to be a letter writer."
"Well, but do you think it's honorable?"
"Hear, O Israel!" cried the Shalotten Shammos, spreading out his palms impatiently. "Haven't I written letters for twenty years?"
The Maggid was silenced. He walked on brooding. "And what is this place, Burnmud, I ask to go to?" he inquired.
"Bournemouth," corrected the other. "It is a place on the South coast where all the most aristocratic consumptives go."