Humoresque | Page 8

a woman for you. More money than she
knows what to do with, and then not satisfied!"
She was still too tremulous for banter. "'Not satisfied'? Why, Leon, I
never stop praying my thanks for you!"
"All right, then," he cried, laying his icy fingers on her cheek;
"to-morrow we'll call a _mignon_--a regular old-fashioned Allen Street
prayer-party."
"Leon, you mustn't make fun."
"Make fun of the sweetest girl in this room!"
"'Girl'! Ah, if I could only hold you by me this way, Leon. Always a
boy--with me--your poor old mother--your only girl. That's a fear I
suffer with, Leon--to lose you to a--girl. That's how selfish the mother

of such a wonder-child like mine can get to be."
"All right! Trying to get me married off again. Nice! Fine!"
"Is it any wonder I suffer, son? Twenty-one years to have kept you by
me a child. A boy that never in his life was out after midnight except to
catch trains. A boy that never has so much as looked at a girl and could
have looked at princesses. To have kept you all these years--mine--is it
any wonder, son, I never stop praying my thanks for you? You don't
believe Hancock, son, the way he keeps always teasing you that you
should have a--what he calls--affair--a love-affair? Such talk is not nice,
Leon--an affair!"
"Love-affair poppycock!" said Leon Kantor, lifting his mother's face
and kissing her on eyes about ready to tear. "Why, I've got something,
ma, right here in my heart for you that--"
"Leon, be careful your shirt-front!"
"That's so--so what you call 'tender,' for my best sweetheart that I--Oh,
love-affair--poppycock!"
She would not let her tears come.
"My boy--my wonder-boy!"
"There goes the overture, ma."
"Here, darlink--your glass of water."
"I can't stand it in here; I'm suffocating!"
"Got your mute in your pocket, son?"
"Yes, ma; for God's sake, yes! Yes! Don't keep asking things!"
"Ain't you ashamed, Leon, to be in such an excitement! For every
concert you get worse."

"The chairs--they'll breathe on nay neck."
"Leon, did mamma promise you those chairs would be moved?"
"Where's Hancock?"
"Say--I'm grateful if he stays out. It took me enough work to get this
room cleared. You know your papa how he likes to drag in the whole
world to show you off--always just before you play. The minute he
walks in the room right away he gets everybody to trembling just from
his own excitements. I dare him this time he should bring people. No
dignity has that man got, the way he brings every one."
Even upon her words came a rattling of door, Of door-knob, and a
voice through the clamor.
"Open--quick--Sarah! Leon!"
A stiffening raced over Mrs. Kantor, so that she sat rigid on her
chair-edge, lips compressed, eye darkly upon the shivering door.
"Open--Sarah!"
With a narrowing glance, Mrs. Kantor laid to her lips a forefinger of
silence.
"Sarah, it's me! Quick, I say!"
Then Leon Kantor sprang up, the old prehensile gesture of curving
fingers shooting up.
"For God's sake, ma, let him in! I can't stand that infernal battering."
"Abrahm, go away! Leon's got to have quiet before his concert."
"Just a minute, Sarah. Open quick!"
With a spring his son was at the door, unlocking and flinging it back.

"Come in, pa."
The years had weighed heavily upon Abrahm Kantor in avoirdupois
only. He was himself plus eighteen years, fifty pounds, and a new sleek
pomposity that was absolutely oleaginous. It shone roundly in his face,
doubling of chin, in the bulge of waistcoat, heavily gold-chained, and
in eyes that behind the gold-rimmed glasses gave sparklingly forth his
estate of well-being.
"Abrahm, didn't I tell you not to dare to--"
On excited balls of feet that fairly bounced him, Abrahm Kantor burst
in.
"Leon--mamma--I got out here an old friend--Sol Ginsberg. You
remember, mamma, from brasses--"
"Abrahm--not now--"
"Go 'way with your 'not now'! I want Leon should meet him. Sol, this is
him--a little grown up from such a nebich like you remember
him--_nu_? Sarah, you remember Sol Ginsberg? Say--I should ask you
if you remember your right hand! Ginsberg & Esel, the firm. This is his
girl, a five years' contract signed yesterday--five hundred dollars an
opera for a beginner--six rôles--not bad--_nu_?"
"Abrahm, you must ask Mr. Ginsberg please to excuse Leon until after
his concert--"
"Shake hands with him, Ginsberg. He's had his hand shook enough in
his life, and by kings, to shake it once more with an old bouncer like
you!"
Mr. Ginsberg, not unlike his colleague in rotundities, held out a short, a
dimpled hand.
"It's a proud day," he said, "for me to shake the hands from mine old
friend's son and the finest violinist livink to-day. My little daughter--"

"Yes, yes, Gina.