The answer pleased his uncle very much, because he knew how easily some forget their duties when at a distance.
"Isaac, I shall try my best to get you something. Let's call in your aunt and ask her advice."
Aunt Sarah came into the room, and folding her bejewelled hands, she began to think.
"The best would be, my husband, if your nephew would tell us at what he would like to work," she finally said.
"Well, Isaac, what do you say?"
Isaac Cohen's face lit up. He had his dreams, like all mortals. His greatest desire was to be a beadle in a synagogue.
"Nothing easier," the uncle explained. "In the synagogue of our own congregation such a position is now vacant."
And the uncle phoned up to the President of the congregation, who was delighted to immediately receive the applicant at his home.
Was Isaac Cohen happy? Was there ever a happier man than he was as he walked with his uncle from Second Avenue to Rivington Street?
During the whole voyage he had dreamed of getting a position as a beadle—and now, suddenly, it was being realized. The silken blouses he saw spread out between bunches of radishes and beets on the pushcarts of Orchard Street were now almost within his grasp. He would buy one for his wife with the first money he earned. On another pushcart were toys, leftovers, seconds from last Christmas. He would buy a horse for his little son. All those luxurious things he saw in the windows of the stores were to be for him also. And a three-room flat, with water from faucets, a dumb-waiter, and other new world wonders.