“Hush it!” cried Mr. Kantor, his free hand raised in threat of descent and cowering his small son to still more undersized proportions.  “Hush it, or, by golly, I’ll—­”

“Abrahm—­Abrahm—­what is it?”

Then Mr. Kantor gave vent in acridity of word and feature.

“Schlemmil!” he cried. “Momser!  Ganef!  Nebich!” By which Abrahm Kantor, in smiting mother tongue, branded his offspring with attributes of apostate and ne’er-do-well, of idiot and thief.

“Abrahm!”

“Schlemmil!” repeated Mr. Abrahm, swinging Leon so that he described a large semi-circle that landed him into the meaty and waiting embrace of his mother.  “Take him!  You should be proud of such a little Momser for a son!  Take him—­and here you got back his birthday dollar.  A feedle!  Honest—­when I think on it—­a feedle!”

Such a rush of outrage seemed fairly to strangle Mr. Kantor that he stood, hand still upraised, choking and inarticulate above the now frankly howling huddle of his son.

“Abrahm you should just once touch this child!  How he trembles!  Leon—­mamma’s baby—­what is it—­is this how you come back when papa takes out to buy your birthday present?  Ain’t you ashamed?”

Mouth distended to a large and blackly hollow O, Leon between terrifying spells of breath-holding, continued to howl.

“All the way to Naftel’s toy store I drag him.  A birthday present for a dollar his mother wants he should have—­all right, a birthday present!  I give you my word till I’m ashamed for Naftel, every toy on his shelves is pulled down.  Such a cow—­that shakes with his head—­”

“No—­no—­no!” This from young Leon, beating at his mother’s skirts.

Again the upraised but never quite descending hand of his father.

“By golly, I’ll ‘no—­no’ you!”

“Abrahm—­go way!  Baby, what did papa do?”

Then Mr. Kantor broke into an actual tarantella of rage, his hands palms up and dancing.

“‘What did papa do?’ she asks.  She’s got easy asking.  ’What did papa do?’ The whole shop, I tell you.  A sheep with a baa inside when you squeeze on him—­games—­a horn so he can holler my head off—­such a knife like Izzy’s with a scissors in it!  ‘Leon,’ I said, ashamed for Naftel, ‘that’s a fine knife like Izzy’s so you can cut up with.’  ’All right then’—­when I see how he hollers—­’such a box full of soldiers to have war with.’  ‘Dollar seventy-five,’ says Naftel.  ‘All right then,’ I says—­when I seen how he keeps hollering—­’give you a dollar fifteen for ‘em.’  I should make myself small for fifteen cents more.  ’Dollar fifteen,’ I says—­anything so he should shut up with his hollering for what he seen in the window.”

“He seen something in the window he wanted, Abrahm?”

“Didn’t I tell you?  A feedle!  A four-dollar feedle!  A moosiker, so we should have another feedler in the family for some thirty-cents lessons.”