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'Peace, liar! You promised me your wife for Ophelia! Kloot's frown relaxed into a smile. 'Sure! The first wife I get you shall have. Pinchas gnashed his teeth. Goldwater's voice rose in a joyous roulade. 'I think you owe me a car-fare, said Kloot soothingly. Pinchas waved the rejoinder aside with his cane. 'Why does Hamlet sing? he demanded fiercely. 'Because it's Passover, said Kloot.
Suddenly a strange gurgle spluttered through the cigarette smoke. He read the announcement again. The Yiddish 'Hamlet' was to be the Passover production at Goldwater's Theatre. The author was the world-renowned poet Melchitsedek Pinchas, and the music was by Ignatz Levitsky, the world-famous composer. 'World-famous composer, indeed! cried Pinchas to his garret walls.
It was only when, at the age of sixteen, Gittel Goldstein left the whirring machine-room for the more lucrative and laurelled position of heroine of Goldwater's London Yiddish Theatre that he had discovered how this whimsical, coquettish creature had insinuated herself into his very being.
The dignity of the hero of a hundred dramas was best served by private beefsteaks and a rumoured version, irrefutable save in a court of law. It was bad enough that the Heathen Journalist should supply so graphic a picture of the midnight melodrama, coloured even more highly than Goldwater's eyes.
But at that very instant Goldwater's voice returned to the bureau, ejaculating complacently: 'They're loving it, Kloot; they're swallowing it like ice-cream soda. Pinchas tingled with pleasure, but all Kloot replied was: 'You're wanted on the 'phone. 'Hello! called Goldwater. 'Hello! replied Pinchas in his natural voice. 'May a sudden death smite you!
What! here was that ape of a Goldwater positively wallowing in admiration, while he, the mighty poet, had been cast into outer darkness and his work mocked and crucified! He put forth all his might, like Samson amid the Philistines, and leaving his coat-collar in Kloot's hand, he plunged into the circle of light. Goldwater's amazed face turned to meet him.
'But Goldwater awaits me, the poet protested. 'I guess not. Mr. Kloot's orders. Can't have authors monkeying around here. As he spoke Goldwater's voice rose from the neighbouring stage in an operatic melody, and reduced Pinchas's brain to chaos. A despairing sense of strange plots and treasons swept over him. He ran back to the lobby. The doors had been bolted.
At least there were several Yiddish Theatres, each claiming this supreme position, but the poet felt that the production of his play at Goldwater's Theatre settled the question among them. 'It is the greatest play of the generation, he told the young socialists and free-thinkers who sat around him this Friday evening imbibing chocolate.
He hied to the nearest drug-store, and entering the telephone cabinet rang up Goldwater. 'Hello, there! came the voice of Kloot. 'Who are you? Pinchas had a vivid vision of the big-nosed youth, in his peaked cap, sitting on the table by the telephone, swinging his legs; but he replied craftily, in a disguised voice: 'You, Goldwater? 'No; Goldwater's on the stage. Pinchas groaned.
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