"Gan-éden!" he declared as he reached across the table and shook hands with Mrs. Lesengeld.
"Mrs. Lesengeld," he said, "my mother olav hasholom was a good cook, understand me, aber you are a good cook, Mrs. Lesengeld, and that's all there is to it."
Forthwith he resumed his knife and fork, and with only two pauses for the necessary replenishments, he polished off three platefuls of the fish, after which he heaved a great sigh of contentment, and as a prelude to conversation he lit one of B. Gans' choicest cigars.
"There's some dessert coming," Mrs. Lesengeld said.
"Dessert after this, Mrs. Lesengeld," he replied, through clouds of contented smoke, "would be a sacrilege, ain't it?"
"That's something I couldn't make at all," Mrs. Lesengeld admitted. "All I got it here is some frimsel kugel."
"Frimsel kugel!" Scharley exclaimed, laying down his cigar. "Why ain't you told me that before?"
A quarter of an hour later he again lighted his cigar, and this time he settled back in his campstool for conversation, while Mrs. Lesengeld busied herself about the oil stove. Instantly, however, he straightened up as another and more delicious odour assailed his nostrils, for Mrs. Lesengeld made coffee by a mysterious process, that conserved in the flavour of the decoction the delicious fragrance of the freshly ground bean.
"And are you staying down here with Mrs. Lesengeld?" Scharley asked Yetta after he had finished his third cup.
"In this little place here?" Mrs. Lesengeld cried indignantly. "Well, I should say not. She's stopping at the Salisbury, ain't you, Yetta?"