"A true story!" said the Shalotten Shammos, ironically. "That tale has been over Warsaw this twelvemonth."
"It occurred when I was a boy," affirmed Belcovitch indignantly. "I remember it quite well. Some people explained it favorably. Others were of opinion that the soul of the fishmonger had transmigrated into the fish, an opinion borne out by the death of the fishmonger a few days before. And the Rabbi is still alive to prove it—may his light continue to shine—though they write that he has lost his memory."
The Shalotten Shammos sceptically passed a pear to his son. Old Gabriel Hamburg, the scholar, came compassionately to the raconteur's assistance.
"Rabbi Solomon Maimon," he said, "has left it on record that he witnessed a similar funeral in Posen."
"It was well she buried it," said Karlkammer. "It was an atonement for a child, and saved its life."
The Shalotten Shammos laughed outright.
"Ah, laugh not," said Mrs. Belcovitch. "Or you might laugh with blood.
It isn't for my own sins that I was born with ill-matched legs."
"I must laugh when I hear of God's fools burying fish anywhere but in their stomach," said the Shalotten Shammos, transporting a Brazil nut to the rear, where it was quickly annexed by Solomon Ansell, who had sneaked in uninvited and ousted the other boy from his coign of vantage.
The conversation was becoming heated; Breckeloff turned the topic.
"My sister has married a man who can't play cards," he said lugubriously.