“Yes, brethren,” he resumed.  “These Anglo-Jewish swine trample unheeding on the pearls of poetry and scholarship, they choose for Ministers men with four mistresses, for Chief Rabbis hypocrites who cannot even write the holy tongue grammatically, for Dayanim men who sell their daughters to the rich, for Members of Parliament stockbrokers who cannot speak English, for philanthropists greengrocers who embezzle funds.  Let us have nothing to do with these swine—­Moses our teacher forbade it.  (Laughter.) I will be the Member for Whitechapel.  See, my name Melchitsedek Pinchas already makes M.P.—­it was foreordained.  If every letter of the Torah has its special meaning, and none was put by chance, why should the finger of heaven not have written my name thus:  M.P.—­Melchitsedek Pinchas.  Ah, our brother Wolf speaks truth—­wisdom issues from his lips.  Put aside your petty quarrels and unite in working for my election to Parliament.  Thus and thus only shall you be redeemed from bondage, made from beasts of burden into men, from slaves to citizens, from false Jews to true Jews.  Thus and thus only shall you eat, drink and be satisfied, and thank me for bringing you out of the land of bondage.  Thus and thus only shall Judaism cover the world as the waters cover the sea.”

The fervid peroration overbalanced the audience, and from all sides except the platform applause warmed the poet’s ears.  He resumed his seat, and as he did so he automatically drew out a match and a cigar, and lit the one with the other.  Instantly the applause dwindled, died; there was a moment of astonished silence, then a roar of execration.  The bulk of the audience, as Pinchas, sober, had been shrewd enough to see, was still orthodox.  This public desecration of the Sabbath by smoking was intolerable.  How should the God of Israel aid the spread of Socialism and the shorter hours movement and the rise of prices a penny on a coat, if such devil’s incense were borne to His nostrils?  Their vague admiration of Pinchas changed into definite distrust. “Epikouros, Epikouros, Meshumad” resounded from all sides.  The poet looked wonderingly about him, failing to grasp the situation.  Simon Wolf saw his opportunity.  With an angry jerk he knocked the glowing cigar from between the poet’s teeth.  There was a yell of delight and approbation.

Wolf jumped to his feet.  “Brothers,” he roared, “you know I am not froom, but I will not have anybody else’s feelings trampled upon.”  So saying, he ground the cigar under his heel.

Immediately an abortive blow from the poet’s puny arm swished the air.  Pinchas was roused, the veins on his forehead swelled, his heart thumped rapidly in his bosom.  Wolf shook his knobby fist laughingly at the poet, who made no further effort to use any other weapon of offence but his tongue.