YITZCHOK-YOSSEL BROITGEBER 245
"What do you want with that? Are you measuring me for trousers?"
"Ett, don't you ask! No need to teach a skilled workman his trade !"
"And what about the charge?"
"We shall settle that later."
"No, that won't do with me; I am a trader, you understand, and must have it all pat."
"Five gulden."
"And how much less?"
"How should I know? Well, four."
"Well, and half a ruble?"
"Well, well"
"Remember, Eeb Yitzchok-Yossel, it must be a masterpiece !"
"Trust me!"
For five days and five nights Yitzchok-Yossel set his imagination to work on Binyomin Droibnik's inherit- ance. There was no eating for him, no drinking, and no sleeping. The scissors squeaked, the needle ran hither and thither, up and down, the inheritance sighed and almost sobbed under the hot iron. But how happy was Yitzchok-Yossel those lightsome days and merry nights? Who could compare with him? Greater than the Kabtzonivke village elder, richer than Yisroel Din- tzis, the tax-gatherer, and more exalted than the bailiff himself was Yitzchok-Yossel, that is, in his own esti- mation. All that he wished, thought, and felt was forthwith created by means of his scissors and iron, his thimble, needle, and cotton. No more putting on
