The Committee agreed nem. con. to the grant of a seaside holiday, and the Shalotten Shammos with a gratified feeling of importance waived his twopence halfpenny.  He drew up a letter forthwith, not of course in the name of the Sons of the Covenant, but in the Maggid’s own.

He took the magniloquent sentences to the Maggid for signature.  He found the Maggid walking up and down Royal Street waiting for the verdict.  The Maggid walked with a stoop that was almost a permanent bow, so that his long black beard reached well towards his baggy knees.  His curved eagle nose was grown thinner, his long coat shinier, his look more haggard, his corkscrew earlocks were more matted, and when he spoke his voice was a tone more raucous.  He wore his high hat—­a tall cylinder that reminded one of a weather-beaten turret.

The Shalotten Shammos explained briefly what he had done.

“May thy strength increase!” said the Maggid in the Hebrew formula of gratitude.

“Nay, thine is more important,” replied the Shalotten Shammos with hilarious heartiness, and he proceeded to read the letter as they walked along together, giant and doubled-up wizard.

“But I haven’t got a wife and six children,” said the Maggid, for whom one or two phrases stood out intelligible.  “My wife is dead and I never was blessed with a Kaddish.”

“It sounds better so,” said the Shalotten Shammos authoritatively.  “Preachers are expected to have heavy families dependent upon them.  It would sound lies if I told the truth.”

This was an argument after the Maggid’s own heart, but it did not quite convince him.

“But they will send and make inquiries,” he murmured.

“Then your family are in Poland; you send your money over there.”

“That is true,” said the Maggid feebly.  “But still it likes me not.”

“You leave it to me,” said the Shalotten Shammos impressively.  “A shamefaced man cannot learn, and a passionate man cannot teach.  So said Hillel.  When you are in the pulpit I listen to you; when I have my pen in hand, do you listen to me.  As the proverb says, if I were a Rabbi the town would burn.  But if you were a scribe the letter would burn.  I don’t pretend to be a Maggid, don’t you set up to be a letter writer.”

“Well, but do you think it’s honorable?”

“Hear, O Israel!” cried the Shalotten Shammos, spreading out his palms impatiently.  “Haven’t I written letters for twenty years?”

The Maggid was silenced.  He walked on brooding.  “And what is this place, Burnmud, I ask to go to?” he inquired.

“Bournemouth,” corrected the other.  “It is a place on the South coast where all the most aristocratic consumptives go.”

“But it must be very dear,” said the poor Maggid, affrighted.

“Dear?  Of course it’s dear,” said the Shalotten Shammos pompously.  “But shall we consider expense where your health is concerned?”