"Dat's me fader," he said. "Fourt' floor front east. He ain't in, dough."
"Your father!" Morris cried. "Why, the people I am coming to see they are greenhorns."
"Oh, yeh," the youngster replied; "dat's me fader's uncle. He lives wid us."
"All right," Morris said. "Take me up there."
The youngster resumed his swollen cheek and escorted Morris up three flights of slippery brassbound stairs. Without the formality of knocking, they entered an apartment on the fourth floor where a woman stood washing dishes.
"Mrs. Levin?" Morris said.
The woman nodded.
"I want to see your man's uncle," Morris continued. Without looking up the woman cried in stentorian tones: "Mees-taire!"
In response a bent figure, clad in an alpaca caftan, appeared from an interior bedroom. He wore a velvet skullcap, and a thin gray beard straggled from his chin; his nose was surmounted by a pair of steel spectacles.
"Sholom alaicham!" Morris cried, according the Rabbi that greeting, as ancient as the Hebrew tongue itself—"Peace be with you."