“I know.  But these speeches must be in Yiddish.”

“Gewiss.  But who speak her like me and you?  You muz gif me a speech to-night.”

“I can’t; really not,” said Simon.  “The programme’s arranged.  You know they’re all jealous of me already.  I dare not leave one out.”

“Ah, no; do not say dat!” said Pinchas, laying his finger pleadingly on the side of his nose.

“I must.”

“You tear my heart in two.  I lof you like a brother—­almost like a voman.  Just von!” There was an appealing smile in his eye.

“I cannot.  I shall have a hornet’s nest about my ears.”

“Von leedle von, Simon Wolf!” Again his finger was on his nose.

“It is impossible.”

“You haf not considair how my Yiddish shall make kindle every heart, strike tears from every eye, as Moses did from de rock.”

“I have.  I know.  But what am I to do?”

“Jus dis leedle favor; and I vill be gradeful to you all mine life.”

“You know I would if I could.”

Pinchas’s finger was laid more insistently on his nose.

“Just dis vonce.  Grant me dis, and I vill nevair ask anyding of you in all my life.”

“No, no.  Don’t bother, Pinchas.  Go away now,” said Wolf, getting annoyed.  “I have lots to do.”

“I vill never gif you mine ideas again!” said the poet, flashing up, and he went out and banged the door.

The labor-leader settled to his papers with a sigh of relief.

The relief was transient.  A moment afterwards the door was slightly opened, and Pinchas’s head was protruded through the aperture.  The poet wore his most endearing smile, the finger was laid coaxingly against the nose.

“Just von leedle speech, Simon.  Tink how I lof you.”

“Oh, well, go away.  I’ll see,” replied Wolf, laughing amid all his annoyance.

The poet rushed in and kissed the hem of Wolf’s coat.

“Oh, you be a great man!” he said.  Then he walked out, closing the door gently.  A moment afterwards, a vision of the dusky head, with the carneying smile and the finger on the nose, reappeared.

“You von’t forget your promise,” said the head.

“No, no.  Go to the devil.  I won’t forget.”

Pinchas walked home through streets thronged with excited strikers, discussing the situation with oriental exuberance of gesture, with any one who would listen.  The demands of these poor slop-hands (who could only count upon six hours out of the twenty-four for themselves, and who, by the help of their wives and little ones in finishing, might earn a pound a week) were moderate enough—­hours from eight to eight, with an hour for dinner and half an hour for tea, two shillings from the government contractors for making a policeman’s great-coat instead of one and ninepence halfpenny, and so on and so on.  Their intentions were strictly peaceful.  Every face was stamped with the marks