"What do I know of the Holy Tongue!" repeated Ebenezer scornfully. "Hold yours!"
The Committee laughed, but Schlesinger, who was a serious man, said,
"Business, gentlemen, business."
"Come, then! I'll challenge you to translate a page of Metatoron's
Flames," said Pinchas, skipping about the office like a sprightly flea.
"You know no more than the Reverend Joseph Strelitski vith his vite tie
and his princely income."
De Haan seized the poet by the collar, swung him off his feet and tucked him up in the coal-scuttle.
"Yah!" croaked Ebenezer. "Here's a fine editor. Ho! Ho! Ho!"
"We cannot have either of them. It's the only way to keep them quiet," said the furniture-dealer who was always failing.
Ebenezer's face fell and his voice rose.
"I don't see why I should be sacrificed to 'im. There ain't a man in England who can write English better than me. Why, everybody says so. Look at the success of my book, The Old Burgomaster, the best Dutch novel ever written. The St. Pancras Press said it reminded them of Lord Lytton, it did indeed. I can show you the paper. I can give you one each if you like. And then it ain't as if I didn't know 'Ebrew, too. Even if I was in doubt about anything, I could always go to my father. You give me this paper to manage and I'll make your fortunes for you in a twelvemonth; I will as sure as I stand here."
Pinchas had made spluttering interruptions as frequently as he could in resistance of De Haan's brawny, hairy hand which was pressed against his nose and mouth to keep him down in the coal-scuttle, but now he exploded with a force that shook off the hand like a bottle of soda water expelling its cork.
"You Man-of-the-Earth," he cried, sitting up in the coal-scuttle. "You are not even orthodox. Here, my dear gentlemen, is the very position created by Heaven for me—in this disgraceful country where genius starves. Here at last you have the opportunity of covering yourselves vid eternal glory. Have I not given you the idea of starting this paper? And vas I not born to be a Rédacteur, a Editor, as you call it? Into the paper I vill pour all the fires of my song—"