"And I find," Feldman concluded, "there is a tenant in possession, claiming under a year's lease which will not expire until October first next."
Mr. Jones nodded and cleared his throat so noisily that, to relieve his embarrassment, he felt obliged to crack each of his knuckles in turn. As for Ribnik and Tarnowitz, they sat awestruck in the rear of Feldman's spacious library and felt vaguely that they were in a place of worship. Only Kent J. Goldstein remained unimpressed; and in order to show it he scratched a parlour match on the leg of Feldman's library table; whereat Feldman's ex-cathedra manner forsook him.
"Where in blazes do you think you are, Goldstein?" he asked in colloquial tones—"in a barroom?"
"If it's solid mahogany," Goldstein retorted, "it'll rub up like new. I think you were talking about the tenancy of the premises here."
Feldman choked down his indignation and once more became the dignified advocate.
"That is not the only objection to title, Mr. Goldstein," he said. "Mr. Jones, kindly read the detailed objections contained in your report of closing."
Mr. Jones nodded again and responded to Feldman's demand in a voice that profoundly justified the size of his larynx.
"Description in deed dated January 1, 1783," he began, "from Joost van Gend to William Wauters, is defective; one course reading 'thence along said ditch north to a white-oak tree' should be 'south to a white-oak tree.'"
"Well, what's the difference?" Goldstein interrupted. "It's monumented by the white-oak tree."
"That was cut down long ago," Mr. Jones said.