“I have long since washed my hands of them,” said Simon Wolf, though the fact was not obvious.  “We can trust neither our Rabbis nor our philanthropists.  The Rabbis engrossed in the hypocritical endeavor to galvanize the corpse of Judaism into a vitality that shall last at least their own lifetime, have neither time nor thought for the great labor question.  Our philanthropists do but scratch the surface.  They give the working-man with their right hand what they have stolen from him with the left.”

Simon Wolf was the great Jewish labor leader.  Most of his cronies were rampant atheists, disgusted with the commercialism of the believers.  They were clever young artisans from Russia and Poland with a smattering of education, a feverish receptiveness for all the iconoclastic ideas that were in the London air, a hatred of capitalism and strong social sympathies.  They wrote vigorous jargon for the Friend of Labor and compassed the extreme proverbial limits of impiety by “eating pork on the Day of Atonement.”  This was done partly to vindicate their religious opinions whose correctness was demonstrated by the non-appearance of thunderbolts, partly to show that nothing one way or the other was to be expected from Providence or its professors.

“The only way for our poor brethren to be saved from their slavery,” went on Simon Wolf, “is for them to combine against the sweaters and to let the West-End Jews go and hang themselves.”

“Ah, dat is mine policee,” said Pinchas, “dat was mine policee ven I founded de Holy Land League.  Help yourselves and Pinchas vill help you.  You muz combine, and den I vill be de Moses to lead you out of de land of bondage. Nein, I vill be more dan Moses, for he had not de gift of eloquence.”

“And he was the meekest man that ever lived,” added Wolf.

“Yes, he was a fool-man,” said Pinchas imperturbably.  “I agree with Goethe—­nur Lumpen sind bescheiden, only clods are modaist.  I am not modaist.  Is the Almighty modaist?  I know, I feel vat I am, vat I can do.”

“Look here, Pinchas, you’re a very clever fellow, I know, and I’m very glad to have you with us—­but remember I have organized this movement for years, planned it out as I sat toiling in Belcovitch’s machine-room, written on it till I’ve got the cramp, spoken on it till I was hoarse, given evidence before innumerable Commissions.  It is I who have stirred up the East-End Jews and sent the echo of their cry into Parliament, and I will not be interfered with.  Do you hear?”

“Yes, I hear.  Vy you not listen to me?  You no understand vat I mean!”

“Oh, I understand you well enough.  You want to oust me from my position.”

“Me?  Me?” repeated the poet in an injured and astonished tone.  “Vy midout you de movement vould crumble like a mummy in de air; be not such a fool-man.  To everybody I haf said—­ah, dat Simon Wolf he is a great man, a vair great man; he is de only man among de English Jews who can save de East-End; it is he that should be member for Vitechapel—­not that fool-man Gideon.  Be not such a fool-man!  Haf anoder glaz sherry and some more ham-sandwiches.”  The poet had a simple child-like delight in occasionally assuming the host.