Every Soul Hath Its Song | Page 8

go this month, right away I wouldn't have
believed 'em!"
"Ach, Simon, you think yet it's a pleasure for me? You think for me it's
a pleasure to shut up my flat and leave it for two months? You think it's
easy to leave Izzy, even when he's 'way out West on his trip? You think
it's easy to leave that boy with the whole ocean between?"
"Aw, ma, cut the comedy!"
"Ten times, Simon, I rather stay right here in my flat, but--"
"Then right away on the whole thing I put down my foot."
"Papa!"
"No, no, Simon, I want we should go. Girls nowadays, Simon, got to be
smart--not in the kitchen, but in the head."
"Be a sport, pa."
"It's enough I got a son what's a sport."
"Only a little over two months, papa. Two weeks from to-day we can
get a booking. To-morrow I'll go down to the steamship offices and fix
it all up; I know all about it, papa; there isn't a booklet I haven't read."

"Na, na, I--"
"Simon, in all your life not one thing have you refused me. In all my
life, Simon, have I made on you one demand? Answer me, Simon, eh?
Answer your wife." She placed her thimbled hand across his knee,
peering through dim eyes up into his face. "Eh, Simon, in thirty years?"
"Carrie-sha! Carrie-sha!" He smiled at her through eyes dimmer still,
then rose, waggling the bent forefinger. "But not one day over ten
weeks, so help me!"
"Papa!"
With a cry that broke on its highest note Miss Binswanger sprang to her
feet, her arms clasping about her father's neck.
"Oh, papa! Papa! Mamma!"
"'Sh-h-h-h! the door-bell! Go to the door, Izzy; I guess maybe that's
Ray back or your friend. Ach, such excitement! Already I feel like
we're on the boat."
"Oh, mamma, mamma!" Her words came too rapidly for coherence and
her heart would dance against her breast. "I--I'm just as happy!"
Kissing her mother once on each eye, she danced across to her brother,
tagging him playfully. "Lazy! I'll go to the door. Lazy! Lazy! Tra-la-la,
tra-la-la!" and danced to the door, flinging it wide.
Enter Mr. Irving Shapiro, his soft campus hat pressed against his
striped waistcoat in a slight bow, and a row of even teeth flashed
beneath a neat hedge of mustache.
"Mr. Izzy Binswanger live here?"
"Hello, Irv! That you? Come in!"
She dropped a courtesy. "That sounds like he lives here, don't it? That's
him calling."

And because her new exuberance sent the blood fizzing through her
veins with the bite and sparkle of Vichy, a smile danced across her face,
now in her eyes, now quick upon her lips.
"Come right in the dining-room, Mr.--Mr.--"
"Shapiro."
"--Shapiro; he's expecting you." She drew back the portières, quirking
her head as he passed through. Isadore Binswanger rose from his couch,
pressing his friend's hand and passing him round the little circle.
"Pa, meet Irving Shapiro, city man for the Empire Waist Company. Irv,
meet my father and mother and my sister."
A round of handshaking.
"We're as excited as a barnyard round here, Irv; the governor and the
family just decided to light out for Europe for two months."
"Europe!"
"Ja, my children they drag a old man like me where they want."
Mrs. Binswanger leaned forward smiling in her chair. "You see, we
want papa should have a good rest, Mr. Shapiro. You know yourself I
guess shirtwaists ain't no easy business. We don't know yet if we can
get berths on the twentieth this month, but--"
"State-rooms, mamma."
"State-rooms, then. What's that boat we sail on, Miriam?"
"Roumania, mamma."
Mr. Shapiro sat suddenly forward in his chair, his eager face thrust
forward. "Say, I'm your man!"
"You!"

"Before you get your reservations let me steer you. I got a cousin works
down at the White Flag offices--Harry Mansbach. He'll fix you up if
there ain't a room left on the boat. He's the greatest little fixer you ever
seen."
"Ach, Mr. Shapiro, how grand! To-morrow, Miriam, maybe when you
get the berths--"
"State-rooms, mamma."
"State-rooms, maybe Mr. Shapiro will--will go mit."
"Aw, mamma, he--"
"Will I! Well, I guess!"
Across the table their eyes met and held.
* * * * *
Even into the granite cañon of lower Broadway spring can find a way.
In the fifty-first story of the latest triumph in skyscraping a
six-dollar-a-week stenographer filled her drinking-tumbler with water
and placed it, with two pansies floating atop, beside her typewriting
machine. In Wall Street an apple-woman with the most ancient face in
the world leaned out of her doorway with a new offering, forced but
firm strawberries that caught a backward glance from the passing tide
of finders and keepers, losers and