The owl blinked angrily. 'We are the Chosen People—no historic parallel applies to us. As the dove returned to the ark, as the swallow returns to the lands of the spring, as the tide returns to the sands, as the stars——'
'Yes, yes, I know,' said David; 'but where is there room in Palestine for the Russian Jews?'
'Where was there room in the Temple for the millions who came up at Passover?' retorted Herr Cantberg crushingly.
The telephone here interposed, offering the furs cheaper.
'A godless Bundist!' the owl explained between the deals.
'A Bundist!' David pricked up his ears. From the bravest revolutionary party in Russia he could surely cull a recruit or two. 'Who is he?'
The owl tried to look noble, producing only a twinkle of cunning. 'Oh, I can't betray him; after all, he's a brother-in-Israel. Not that he behaves as such, opposing our candidate for the Duma! Three hundred and thirteen roubles,' he told the telephone sternly. 'Not a kopeck more. Eh? What? He's rung off, the blood-sucker!' He rang him up again. David made a note of the number.
'But what have you Zionists to do with the Parliament in Russia?' he inquired of the owl.
But the owl was haggling with the telephone. 'Three hundred and fifteen! What! Do you want to skin me, like your martins and sables?'
'You are busy,' interposed David, fretting at the waste of his day. 'I shall take the liberty of calling again.'