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"I have written an attack on the Member for Vitechapel," he said, growing calmer, "to hand him down to the execration of posterity, and I have brought it to the Flag. It must go in this veek." "We have already your poem," said Raphael. "I know, but I do not grudge my work, I am not like your money-making English Jews." "There is no room. The paper is full."
"Vy midout you de movement vould crumble like a mummy in de air; be not such a fool-man. To everybody I haf said ah, dat Simon Wolf he is a great man, a vair great man; he is de only man among de English Jews who can save de East-End; it is he that should be member for Vitechapel not that fool-man Gideon. Be not such a fool-man! Haf anoder glaz sherry and some more ham-sandwiches."
And den you vill write about me ve vill put up for Vitechapel at de elections, ve vill both become membairs of Parliament, I and you, eh?" "I'm afraid there's not much chance of that," sighed Simon Wolf. "Vy not? Dere are two seats. Vy should you not haf de Oder?" "Ain't you forgetting about election expenses, Pinchas?" "Nein!" repeated the poet emphatically. "I forgets noding.
Hain't you got no genteel boys in the West-end to butt agin, that you come all the way to Vitechapel to butt agin me? I've a good mind to 'and you over to the p'leece. Come, you owes me a copper for that." The ineffable insolence of this waif took me quite by surprise. He spoke with extreme volubility, and assumed the commanding air of a man of six-feet-four, though only a boy of four-feet-six.
"Vy, mostly in the streets; my last 'ome was a sugar barrel, the one before was a donkey-cart, but I do sometimes condescend to wisit my parents in their mansion 'ouse in Vitechapel." "And what is your name? Sir Richard may wish to inquire for you perhaps." "May he? Oh! I'm sorry I ain't got my card to leave, but you just tell him, John is it, or Thomas? Ah! Thomas.
However, this was finally got over, and a few of the reclaimed waifs were left at Quebec. This was the beginning of the dispersion. "I don't like it at all," said Bobby Frog to his friend Tim Lumpy, that evening in the sleeping car of the railway train that bore them onward to Montreal; "they'll soon be partin' you an' me, an' that'll be worse than wallerin' in the mud of Vitechapel."
She got feverish, he says, an' didn't know what she was sayin' for months, an' nobody come to inquire arter her, an when she began to git well she sent to Vitechapel to inquire for 'er grandmother, but 'er grandmother was gone, nobody knowed where.
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