From his place before the white-and-gold mantel, staring steadfastly at the floor-tiling, Isadore Kantor turned suddenly, a bit whiter and older at the temples.
"Don't get your comedy, Leon.
"'Wooden kimono'—Leon?"
"That's the way the fellows at camp joke about coffins, ma. I didn't mean anything but fun. Great Scott—can't anyone take a joke?"
"O God! O God!" His mother fell to swaying, softly hugging herself against shivering.
"Did you sign over power of attorney to pa, Leon?"
"All fixed, Izzy."
"I'm so afraid, son, you don't take with you enough money in your pockets. You know how you lose it. If only you would let mamma sew that little bag inside your uniform with a little place for bills and a little place for the asfitidy!"
"Now, please, ma—please! If I needed more, wouldn't I take it? Wouldn't
I be a pretty joke among the fellows, tied up in that smelling stuff?
Orders are orders, ma; I know what to take and what not to take."
"Please, Leon, don't get mad at me, but if you will let me put in your suitcase just one little box of that salve for your finger tips, so they don't crack—"