"What fun you've been having down there!"
"Oh," he says, modestly, "it was only a Jew boy whom we were licking."
I jump up so quickly that I upset my chair:
"A Jew boy? Were you licking him? What had he done?"
"Nothing. . . ."
His voice is not very certain, for I look so queer.
And that is only the beginning. For now I snatch my hat and run out of the door as fast as I can and shout:
"Come . . . come . . . we must find him and beg his pardon!"
My little boy hurries after me. He does not understand a word of it, but he is terribly in earnest. We look in the courtyard, we shout and call. We rush into the street and round the corner, so eager are we to come up with him. Breathlessly, we ask three passers-by if they have not seen a poor, ill-used Jew boy.
All in vain: the Jew boy and all his persecutors are blown away into space.