Ikey was not slow in recognizing opportunity either. "Goot-mornin'," he returned, ostentatiously rubbing an arm.
"Is Miss Milo at home?" inquired Balcome, with exaggerated politeness, enjoying the evident embarrassment of the lady present, who—not unlike Lot's wife—had suddenly turned, as it were, into a frozen pillar.
"I don't know," chanted Ikey.
"Well, is Mr. Farvel at home?"
Now, Ikey stretched out weary hand. "Oh, please," he begged, "don't make me lie no more!"
"Ha-a-a-a?" cried Balcome.
"What?" exclaimed Mrs. Balcome.
Ikey nodded, shaking that injured finger. "To lie ain't Christian," he reminded slyly.
Balcome guffawed. But Mrs. Balcome, visited with a dire thought, looked suddenly concerned.
"Tell me:"—she came heaving toward Ikey once more; "did my daughter stay last night with her father?" And as Ikey stared, not understanding the system of family telephoning, "Did—my—daughter—stay—last—night—with—her—father?"