"Then why does his correspondent address him as a Tango Teacher?" friend wife said slowly, and I could hear the icebergs grinding each other all around me.
"I think I can explain that," Bunch put in quietly. Then with the utmost deliberation he looked Ikey in the eye and said, "Mr. Schwartz, it's really none of my business, but would you mind telling me why you, a real estate dealer, should have a letter in your possession which is addressed to you as a Tango Teacher? Answer me on your fingers."
In a minute he had both paws working overtime and such a knuckle twisting no mortal man ever indulged in before.
"He says," Bunch began to interpret, "that the letter is not his. It is intended for Isadore Schwartz, a wicked cousin of his who is a victim of the cabaret habit. Mr. Schwartz is now complaining bitterly with his fingers because his letters and those intended for his renegade cousin become mixed almost every day. These mistakes are made because the initials are identical. He also says that—he—hopes—the—presence— of—this—particular—letter—in—his—possession—does—not—offend— the—ladies—because—while—it—is—addressed—to—a—tango-teacher— the—contents—are—quite—harmless—being—but—a—small—bill—from— the—dentist."
Ikey's fingers kept on working nervously, as though he felt it his duty to wear them out, and the perspiration rolled off poor Bunch's forehead.
"Tell him to cease firing," I said to Bunch; "he'll sprain his fingers and lose his voice."
Ikey doubled up all his eight fingers and two thumbs in one final shout and subsided.