“Yes, that’s the point of the story, and I think the Rebbitzin had the best of it, eh?”

“Rebbitzins always have the last word,” said the Reb.  “But did I tell you the story of the woman who asked me a question the other day?  She brought me a fowl in the morning and said that in cutting open the gizzard she had found a rusty pin which the fowl must have swallowed.  She wanted to know whether the fowl might be eaten.  It was a very difficult point, for how could you tell whether the pin had in any way contributed to the fowl’s death?  I searched the Shass and a heap of Shaalotku-Tshuvos.  I went and consulted the Maggid and Sugarman the Shadchan and Mr. Karlkammer, and at last we decided that the fowl was tripha and could not be eaten.  So the same evening I sent for the woman, and when I told her of our decision she burst into tears and wrung her hands.  ‘Do not grieve so,’ I said, taking compassion upon her, ‘I will buy thee another fowl.’  But she wept on, uncomforted.  ’O woe! woe!’ she cried.  ‘We ate it all up yesterday.’”

Pinchas was convulsed with laughter.  Recovering himself, he lit his half-smoked cigar without asking leave.

“I thought it would turn out differently,” he said.  “Like that story of the peacock.  A man had one presented to him, and as this is such rare diet he went to the Reb to ask if it was kosher.  The Rabbi said ‘no’ and confiscated the peacock.  Later on the man heard that the Rabbi had given a banquet at which his peacock was the crowning dish.  He went to his Rabbi and reproached him. ‘I may eat it,’ replied the Rabbi, ’because my father considers it permitted and we may always go by what some eminent Son of the Law decides.  But you unfortunately came to me for an opinion, and the permissibility of peacock is a point on which I have always disagreed with my father.’”

Hannah seemed to find peculiar enjoyment in the story.

“Anyhow,” concluded Pinchas, “you have a more pious flock than the Rabbi of my native place, who, one day, announced to his congregation that he was going to resign.  Startled, they sent to him a delegate, who asked, in the name of the congregation, why he was leaving them.  ‘Because,’ answered the Rabbi, ’this is the first question any one has ever asked me!’”

“Tell Mr. Pinchas your repartee about the donkey,” said Hannah, smiling.

“Oh, no, it’s not worth while,” said the Reb.

“Thou art always so backward with thine own,” cried the Rebbitzin warmly.  “Last Purim an impudent of face sent my husband a donkey made of sugar.  My husband had a Rabbi baked in gingerbread and sent it in exchange to the donor, with the inscription ‘A Rabbi sends a Rabbi.’”

Reb Shemuel laughed heartily, hearing this afresh at the lips of his wife.  But Pinchas was bent double like a convulsive note of interrogation.

The clock on the mantelshelf began to strike nine.  Levi jumped to his feet.