The little poet was as insinuative 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 grasshopper. '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.' Pinchas had made spluttering interruptions as frequently as he could in resistance of De Haan's brawny hairy hand, which was pressed against his nose and mouth to keep him down in the coal-scuttle, but now he exploded with a force that shook off the hand like a bottle of soda-water expelling its cork. 'You Man-of-the-Earth,' he cried, sitting up in the coal-scuttle, 'you are not even orthodox. Here, my dear gentlemen, is the very position created by Heaven for me, in this disgraceful country vhere genius starves. Here at last you have the opportunity of covering yourself vid eternal glory. Have I not given you the idea of starting this paper? And vas I not born to be a Rédacteur, a editor, as you call it? Into the paper I vill pour all the fires of my song.' 'Yes, burn it up,' croaked Ebenezer. 'I vill lead the Freethinkers and the Reformers back into the fold. I vill be Elijah, and my vings shall be quill pens. I vill save Judaism.'