"The Home should bust up," Belz cried. "What do I care about the Home?"
"Aber the widders?" Lesengeld insisted. "If the Home busts up the widders is thrown into the street. Ain't it?"
"What is that my fault, Lesengeld? Did I make 'em widders?"
"Sure, I know, Belz; aber one or two of 'em ain't widders. One or two of 'em is old maids and they would got to go and live back with their relations. Especially"—he concluded with a twinkle in his eye—"especially one of 'em by the name Blooma Duckman."
"Do you mean to told me," Belz faltered, "that them now—widders is in the Bella Hirshkind Home?"
"For Indignant Females," Lesengeld added, "which Max Schindelberger is president from it also."
Belz nodded and remained silent for at least five minutes.
"I'll tell you, Lesengeld," he said at last, "after all it's a hard thing a woman should be left a widder."
"You bet your life it's a hard thing, Belz!" Lesengeld agreed fervently. "Last week I seen it a woman she is kissing her husband good-bye, and the baby also kisses him good-bye—decent, respectable, hard-working people, understand me—and not two minutes later he gets run down by a trollyer car. The next week they take away from her the furniture, understand me, and she puts the baby into a day nursery, and what happens after that I didn't wait to see at all. Cost me ten cents yet in a drug store for some mathematic spirits of ammonia for Mrs. Lesengeld—she carries on so terrible about it."
Belz sighed tremulously.