The little pulling wrist still in clutch, Mr. Kantor regarded his wife, the lower half of his face, well covered with reddish bristles, undershot, his free hand and even his eyes violently lifted. To those who see in a man a perpetual kinship to that animal kingdom of which he is supreme, there was something undeniably anthropoidal about Abrahm Kantor, a certain simian width between the eyes and long, rather agile hands with hairy backs. "Hush it!" cried Mr. Kantor, his free hand raised in threat of descent, and cowering his small son to still more undersized proportions. "Hush it or, by golly! I'll--" "Abrahm--Abrahm--what is it?" Then Mr. Kantor gave vent in acridity of word and feature. "_Schlemmil!_" he cried. "_Momser! Ganef! Nebich!_" by which, in smiting mother tongue, he branded his offspring with attributes of apostate and ne'er-do-well, of idiot and thief. "Abrahm!" "Schlemmil!" repeated Mr. Kantor, swinging Leon so that he described a large semicircle that landed him into the meaty and waiting embrace of his mother. "Take him! You should be proud of such a little _momser_ for a son! Take him, and here you got back his birthday dollar. A feedle! Honest--when I think on it--a feedle!" Such a rush of outrage seemed fairly to strangle Mr. Kantor that he stood, hand still upraised, choking and inarticulate above the now frankly howling huddle of his son. "Abrahm, you should just once touch this child! How he trembles! Leon--mamma's baby--what is it? Is this how you come back when papa takes you out to buy your birthday present? Ain't you ashamed?" Mouth distended to a large and blackly hollow O, Leon, between terrifying spells of breath-holding, continued to howl. "All the way to Naftel's toy-store I drag him. A birthday present for a dollar his mother wants he should have, all right, a birthday present! I give you my word till I'm ashamed for Naftel, every toy in his shelves is pulled down. Such a cow--that shakes with his head--" "No--no--no!" This from young Leon, beating at his mother's skirts. Again the upraised but never quite descending hand of his father. "By golly! I'll 'no--no' you!" "Abrahm--go 'way! Baby, what did papa do?" Then Mr. Kantor broke into an actual tarantella of rage, his hands palms up and dancing.