"Abrahm, he's screaming so he—he'll have a fit."
"He should have two fits."
"Darlink—"
"I tell you the way you spoil your children it will some day come back on us."
"It's his birthday night, Abrahm—five years since his little head first lay on the pillow next to me."
"All right—all right—drive me crazy because he's got a birthday."
"Leon baby—if you don't stop hollering you'll make yourself sick.
Abrahm, I never saw him like this—he's green—"
"I'll green him. Where is that old feedle from Isadore—that seventy-five-cents one?"
"I never thought of that! You broke it that time you got mad at Isadore's lessons. I'll run down. Maybe it's with the junk behind the store. I never thought of that fiddle. Leon darlink—wait! Mamma'll run down and look. Wait, Leon, till mamma finds you a fiddle."
The raucous screams stopped then, suddenly, and on their very lustiest crest, leaving an echoing gash across silence. On willing feet of haste Mrs. Kantor wound down backward the high, ladder-like staircase that led to the brass-shop.