The young littérateur, the sumptuousness of whose Bar-mitzvah party was still a memory with his father, had lank black hair, with a long nose that supported blue spectacles.
'What does he know of the Holy Tongue?' croaked Melchitzedek witheringly, adding in a confidential whisper to the cigar-merchant, 'I and you, Schlesinger, are the only two men in England who can write the Holy Tongue grammatically.'
The little poet was as insinuative and volcanic (by turns) as ever. His beard was, however, better trimmed, and his complexion healthier, and he looked younger than ten years ago. His clothes were quite spruce. For several years he had travelled about the Continent, mainly at Raphael's expense. He said his ideas came better in touring and at a distance from the unappreciative English Jewry. It was a pity, for with his linguistic genius his English would have been immaculate by this time. As it was, there was a considerable improvement in his writing, if not so much in his accent.
'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 grasshopper. '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.