All the members of the Council of the Co-operative Kosher Society spoke English volubly and more or less grammatically, but none had sufficient confidence in the others to propose one of them for editor, though it is possible that none would have shrunk from having a shot.  Diffidence is not a mark of the Jew.  The claims of Ebenezer Sugarman and of Melchitsedek Pinchas were put forth most vehemently by Ebenezer and Melchitsedek respectively, and their mutual accusations of incompetence enlivened Mr. Schlesinger’s back office.

“He ain’t able to spell the commonest English words,” said Ebenezer, with a contemptuous guffaw that sounded like the croak of a raven.

The young litterateur, the sumptuousness of whose Barmitzvah-party was still a memory with his father, had lank black hair, with a long nose that supported blue spectacles.

“What does he know of the Holy Tongue?” croaked Melchitsedek witheringly, adding in a confidential whisper to the cigar merchant:  “I and you, Schlesinger, are the only two men in England who can write the Holy Tongue grammatically.”

The little poet was as insinutive and volcanic (by turns) as ever.  His beard was, however, better trimmed and his complexion healthier, and he looked younger than ten years ago.  His clothes were quite spruce.  For several years he had travelled about the Continent, mainly at Raphael’s expense.  He said his ideas came better in touring and at a distance from the unappreciative English Jewry.  It was a pity, for with his linguistic genius his English would have been immaculate by this time.  As it was, there was a considerable improvement in his writing, if not so much in his accent.

“What do I know of the Holy Tongue!” repeated Ebenezer scornfully.  “Hold yours!”

The Committee laughed, but Schlesinger, who was a serious man, said, “Business, gentlemen, business.”

“Come, then!  I’ll challenge you to translate a page of Metatoron’s Flames,” said Pinchas, skipping about the office like a sprightly flea.  “You know no more than the Reverend Joseph Strelitski vith his vite tie and his princely income.”

De Haan seized the poet by the collar, swung him off his feet and tucked him up in the coal-scuttle.

“Yah!” croaked Ebenezer.  “Here’s a fine editor.  Ho!  Ho!  Ho!”

“We cannot have either of them.  It’s the only way to keep them quiet,” said the furniture-dealer who was always failing.

Ebenezer’s face fell and his voice rose.

“I don’t see why I should be sacrificed to ’im.  There ain’t a man in England who can write English better than me.  Why, everybody says so.  Look at the success of my book, The Old Burgomaster, the best Dutch novel ever written.  The St. Pancras Press said it reminded them of Lord Lytton, it did indeed.  I can show you the paper.  I can give you one each if you like.  And then it ain’t as if I didn’t know ’Ebrew, too.  Even if I was in doubt about anything, I could always go to my father.  You give me this paper to manage and I’ll make your fortunes for you in a twelvemonth; I will as sure as I stand here.”