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?"

The _Maggid_ felt so grateful he was almost ashamed to ask whether he
could eat _kosher_ there, but the Shalotten _Shammos_, who had the air
of a tall encyclopaedia, set his soul at rest on all points.

CHAPTER XIII.

SUGARMAN'S BAR-MITZVAH PARTY.

The day of Ebenezer Sugarman's _Bar-mitzvah_ duly arrived. All his sins
would henceforth be on his own head and everybody rejoiced. By the
Friday evening so many presents had arrived--four breastpins, two rings,
six pocket-knives, three sets of _Machzorim_ or Festival Prayer-books,
and the like--that his father barred up the door very carefully and in
the middle of the night, hearing a mouse scampering across the floor,
woke up in a cold sweat and threw open the bedroom window and cried "Ho!
Buglers!" But the "Buglers" made no sign of b