“Talking of Karlkammer’s article, are you ever going to use up Herman’s scientific paper?” asked little Sampson.

“I’m afraid so,” said Raphael; “I don’t know how we can get out of it.  But his eternal kosher meat sticks in my throat.  We are Jews for the love of God, not to be saved from consumption bacilli.  But I won’t use it to-morrow; we have Miss Cissy Levine’s tale.  It’s not half bad.  What a pity she has the expenses of her books paid!  If she had to achieve publication by merit, her style might be less slipshod.”

“I wish some rich Jew would pay the expenses of my opera tour,” said little Sampson, ruefully.  “My style of doing the thing would be improved.  The people who are backing me up are awfully stingy, actually buying up battered old helmets for my chorus of Amazons.”

Intermittently the question of the sub-editor’s departure for the provinces came up:  it was only second in frequency to his “victories.”  About once a month the preparations for the tour were complete, and he would go about in a heyday of jubilant vocalization; then his comic prima-donna would fall ill or elope, his conductor would get drunk, his chorus would strike, and little Sampson would continue to sub-edit The Flag of Judah.

Pinchas unceremoniously turned the handle of the door and came in.  The sub-editor immediately hurried out to get a cup of tea.  Pinchas had fastened upon him the responsibility for the omission of an article last week, and had come to believe that he was in league with rival Continental scholars to keep Melchitsedek Pinchas’s effusions out of print, and so little Sampson dared not face the angry savant.  Raphael, thus deserted, cowered in his chair.  He did not fear death, but he feared Pinchas, and had fallen into the cowardly habit of bribing him lavishly not to fill the paper.  Fortunately, the poet was in high feather.

“Don’t forget the announcement that I lecture at the Club on Sunday.  You see all the efforts of Reb Shemuel, of the Rev. Joseph Strelitski, of the Chief Rabbi, of Ebenezer vid his blue spectacles, of Sampson, of all the phalanx of English Men-of-the-Earth, they all fail.  Ab, I am a great man.”

“I won’t forget,” said Raphael wearily.  “The announcement is already in print.”

“Ah, I love you.  You are the best man in the vorld.  It is you who have championed me against those who are thirsting for my blood.  And now I vill tell you joyful news.  There is a maiden coming up to see you—­she is asking in the publisher’s office—­oh such a lovely maiden!”

Pinchas grinned all over his face, and was like to dig his editor in the ribs.

“What maiden?”

“I do not know; but vai-r-r-y beaudiful.  Aha, I vill go.  Have you not been good to me?  But vy come not beaudiful maidens to me?”

“No, no, you needn’t go,” said Raphael, getting red.

Pinchas grinned as one who knew better, and struck a match to rekindle a stump of cigar.  “No, no, I go write my lecture—­oh it vill be a great lecture.  You vill announce it in the paper!  You vill not leave it out like Sampson left out my article last week.”  He was at the door now, with his finger alongside his nose.