“Sarah,” he declared, addressing his daughter, “them pickles is simply graind.”
“I opened a new jar to-day, papa,” Mrs. Koch returned.
“Elias Bacharach,” the old gentleman continued, “what you think of them pickles?”
“They're delicious,” Elias said.
“Vail, sir, my daughter, she make them herself. I think she make the best pickles going.”
“Oh, papa,” protested Mrs. Koch, blushing. “How can you say dot, when Aintoinette Morgenthau is seated right next to you? Her pickles beat mine all hollow.”
“No,” cried Mrs. Morgenthau, magnanimously; “he's right. You're the boss.”
“Vail,” pursued Mr. Blum, judicially, “there is a difference. Aintoinette's pickles is splendid—dot's a faict. Maybe their flavor is just exactly as good as yours. But yours is crisper. My Gott! when I put one of your pickles in my mouth, dot makes me feel said. I never taste no pickles so crisp as them, since I was a little boy in Chairmany, and ate my mamma's. Her pickles—oh, they was loafly, they was maiknificent.”
“Ach, papa! You got so much zendimend!” his daughter exclaimed, with deep sympathy.
“You ought to taste my mamma's pickles,” Tillie whispered to Elias. “Of course, Mr. Blum is prejudiced in favor of his daughter's.”