"It gave me up," said the Rabbi, putting down his knife and fork to expound an ancient grievance. "A boy-Maggid cannot last more than a few years. Up to nine I was still a draw, but every year the wonder grew less, and, when I was thirteen, my Bar-Mitzvah (confirmation) sermon occasioned no more sensation than those of the many other lads whose sermons I had written for them. I struggled along as boyishly as I could for some time after that, but it was in a losing cause. My age won on me daily. As it is said, 'I have been young, and now I am old.' In vain I composed the most eloquent addresses to be heard in Grodno. In vain I gave a course on the emotions, with explanations and instances from daily life--the fickle public preferred younger attractions. So at last I gave it up and sold _vodki_." [Illustration: "'SOLD VODKI.'"] "Vat a pity! Vat a pity!" ejaculated Yankelé, "after vinning fame in de Torah!" "But what is a man to do? He is not always a boy," replied the Rabbi. "Yes, I kept a brandy shop. That's what I call Degradation. But there is always balm in Gilead. I lost so much money over it that I had to emigrate to England, where, finding nothing else to do, I became a preacher again." He poured himself out a glass of _schnapps_, ignoring the water. "I heard nothing of de _vodki_ shop," said Yankelé; "it vas svallowed up in your earlier fame." The Rabbi drained the glass of _schnapps_, smacked his lips, and resumed his knife and fork. Manasseh reached for the unoffered bottle, and helped himself liberally. The Rabbi unostentatiously withdrew it beyond his easy reach, looking at Yankelé the while. "How long have you been in England?" he asked the Pole. "Not long," said Yankelé. "Ha! Does Gabriel the cantor still suffer from neuralgia?" Yankelé looked sad. "No--he is dead," he said. "Dear me! Well, he was tottering when I knew him. His blowing of the ram's horn got wheezier every year. And how is his young brother, Samuel?" "He is dead!" said Yankelé. "What, he too! Tut, tut! He was so robust. Has Mendelssohn, the stonemason, got many more girls?" "He is dead!" said Yankelé. "Nonsense!" gasped the Rabbi, dropping his knife and fork. "Why, I heard from him only a few months ago." "He is dead!" said Yankelé. "Good gracious me! Mendelssohn dead!" After a moment of emotion he resumed his meal. "But his sons and daughters are all doing well, I hope. The eldest, Solomon, was a most pious youth, and his third girl, Neshamah, promised to be a rare beauty." "They are dead!" said Yankelé. This time the Rabbi turned pale as a corpse himself. He laid down his knife and fork automatically. "D--dead," he breathed in an awestruck whisper. "All?" "Everyone. De same cholera took all de family." The Rabbi covered his face with his hands. "Then poor Solomon's wife is a widow. I hope he left her enough to live upon." "No, but it doesn't matter," said Yankelé. "It matters a great deal," cried the Rabbi. "She is dead," said Yankelé.