“Nu, mammeh,” sallied Jake, “did you ever dream in Delancey Street that we should rub sleeves with the President?”
“I always said that Benny had more head than the rest of you,” replied the mother.
As the laughter died away, Jake went on:
“Honor you are getting plenty; but how much mezummen does this play bring you? Can I invest any of it in real estate for you?”
“I’m getting ten per cent royalties of the gross receipts,” replied the youthful playwright.
“How much is that?” queried Hanneh Breineh.
“Enough to buy up all your fish-markets in Delancey Street,” laughed Abe in good-natured raillery at his mother.
Her son’s jest cut like a knife-thrust in her heart. She felt her heart ache with the pain that she was shut out from their successes. Each added triumph only widened the gulf. And when she tried to bridge this gulf by asking questions, they only thrust her back upon herself.
“Your fame has even helped me get my hat trade solid with the Four Hundred,” put in Fanny. “You bet I let Mrs. Van Suyden know that our box is next to the President’s. She said she would drop in to meet you. Of course she let on to me that she hadn’t seen the play yet, though my designer said she saw her there on the opening night.”
“Oh, Gosh, the toadies!” sneered Benny. “Nothing so sickens you with success as the way people who once shoved you off the sidewalk come crawling to you on their stomachs begging you to dine with them.”