'And you will seek me in the café when rehearsals begin?'
'That goes without saying.'
The poet looked cunning. 'But don't you say without going.'
'How can we rehearse without you? You shouldn't have worried the boss. We'll call you, even if it's the middle of the night.'
The poet jumped at Kloot's hand and kissed it.
'Protector of poets!' he cried ecstatically. 'And you will see that they do not mutilate my play; you will not suffer a single hair of my poesy to be harmed?'
'Not a hair shall be cut,' said Kloot solemnly.
Pinchas kissed his hand again. 'Ah, I and you are the only two men in New York who understand how to treat poesy.'
'Sure!' Kloot snatched his hand away. 'Good-bye.'
Pinchas lingered, gathering up his papers. 'And you will see it is not adulterated with American. In Zion they do not say "Sure" or "Lend me a nickel."'