"Very well; I shall ask some other boy to tell him that I shall wash out his mouth."
"Well," Morris began as before, "I guess you don't know 'bout Isaac Borrachsohn. You dassent to wash out his mouth, 'cause his grandpa's a Rabbi."
"I know he is. Is that any reason for Isaac's swearing?"
"His papa," Morris began in an awed whisper, "his papa's the King of
Hester Street."
"Well," responded Teacher calmly, "that makes no difference to me. No one may swear in this room. And now, Morris, you must run home. Your mother will be wondering where you are."
Three minutes later Morris's dark head reappeared. His air was deeply confidential. "Teacher, Missis Bailey," he began, "I tells you 'scuse."
"Well, dear, what is it?" asked Miss Bailey with divided interest, as she adjusted a very large hat with the guidance of a very small looking-glass. "What do you want?"
Again Morris hesitated. "I guess," he faltered; "I guess you don't know 'bout Isaac Borrachsohn."
"What has happened to him? Is he hurt?"
"It's his papa. Ain't I told you he's the King of Hester Street und he's got dancing balls. My mamma und all the ladies on our block they puts them on stylish und goes on the ball. Und ain't you see how he's got a stylish mamma mit di'monds on the hair?"