majesty the great Bar-mitzvah cake, like some mighty sphinx of stone surveying the ruins of empires, and the least reverent shrank before its austere gaze.  But at last the Shalotten Shammos shook off his awe and stretched out his hand leisurely towards the cake, as became the master of ceremonies.  But when Sugarman the Shadchan beheld his hand moving like a creeping flame forward, he sprang towards him, as the tigress springs when the hunter threatens her cub.  And speaking no word he snatched the great cake from under the hand of the spoiler and tucked it under his arm, in the place where he carried Nehemiah, and sped therewith from the room.  Then consternation fell upon the scene till Solomon Ansell, crawling on hands and knees in search of windfalls, discovered a basket of apples stored under the centre of the table, and the Shalotten Shammos’s son told his father thereof ere Solomon could do more than secure a few for his brother and sisters.  And the Shalotten Shammos laughed joyously, “Apples,” and dived under the table, and his long form reached to the other side and beyond, and graybearded men echoed the joyous cry and scrambled on the ground like schoolboys.

“Leolom tikkach—­always take,” quoted the Badchan gleefully.

When Sugarman returned, radiant, he found his absence had been fatal.

“Piece of fool!  Two-eyed lump of flesh,” said Mrs. Sugarman in a loud whisper.  “Flying out of the room as if thou hadst the ague.”

“Shall I sit still like thee while our home is eaten up around us?” Sugarman whispered back.  “Couldst thou not look to the apples?  Plaster image!  Leaden fool!  See, they have emptied the basket, too.”

“Well, dost thou expect luck and blessing to crawl into it?  Even five shillings’ worth of nash cannot last for ever.  May ten ammunition wagons of black curses be discharged on thee!” replied Mrs. Sugarman, her one eye shooting fire.

This was the last straw of insult added to injury.  Sugarman was exasperated beyond endurance.  He forgot that he had a wider audience than his wife; he lost all control of himself, and cried aloud in a frenzy of rage, “What a pity thou hadst not a fourth uncle!”

Mrs. Sugarman collapsed, speechless.

“A greedy lot, marm,” Sugarman reported to Mrs. Hyams on the Monday.  “I was very glad you and your people didn’t come; dere was noding left except de prospectuses of the Hamburg lotter_ee_ vich I left laying all about for de guests to take.  Being Shabbos I could not give dem out.”

“We were sorry not to come, but neither Mr. Hyams nor myself felt well,” said the white-haired broken-down old woman with her painfully slow enunciation.  Her English words rarely went beyond two syllables.

“Ah!” said Sugarman.  “But I’ve come to give you back your corkscrew.”

“Why, it’s broken,” said Mrs. Hyams, as she took it.