"But remember, not more than three!" and Yainkele's eyes flashed. Berele set to work to write the three words; but that which he wished to express required yet ten to fifteen words, and Berele, excited by the fact of writing, pecked away at the paper, and took up yet another bit of the other half.
"You stop!" shrieked Yainkele, and broke into hysterical sobs, as he saw what a small space remained for him.
"Hush! Just 'from me, thy son,'" begged Berele, "nothing else!"
But Yainkele, remembering that he had given a whole vierer toward the post-card, and that they would read so much of Berele at home, and so little of him, flew into a passion, and came and tried to tear away the card from under Berele's hands. "Let me put 'from me, thy son'!" implored Berele.
"It will do without 'from me, thy son'!" screamed Yainkele, although he felt that one ought to put it. His anger rose, and he began tugging at the card. Berele held tight, but Yainkele gave such a pull that the card tore in two.
"What have you done, villain!" cried Berele, glaring at Yainkele.
"I meant to do it!" wailed Yainkele.
"Oh, but why did you?" cried Berele, gazing in despair at the two torn halves of the post-card.
But Yainkele could not answer. The tears choked him, and he threw himself against the wall, tearing his hair. Then Berele gave way, too, and the little room resounded with lamentations.