“Vail, dot's pretty good,” cried Mr. Blum, with cutting irony, “and what you say of them big American bank swindlers, hey? They do things on a generous scale, don't they?” “That's no argument,” replied his son-in-law. “That don't signify any thing. If you want to argue, you just answer me this. If you think America's such a poor sort of a place, what did you come here for, any way?” “Oh, I came because I didn't have no money; and I got an idea the streets here was paved with gold.” “Well, now that you've got money, and now that you know the streets here ain't paved with gold, why don't you go back?” “Oh, dot--dot is another question.” “Well, I'll tell you why. Because you like it here, Because, down deep, you think it's the finest country in the world. You talk against it, for the love of talking. If you went to Europe, you'd be as homesick as anybody.” “Ain't my uncle a splendid conversationalist?'' Tillie whispered to Elias. “Washington,” said his father-in-law, solemnly, “you got a head on you like Daniel Webster's.” “Oh, papa!” cried Mrs. Koch. “You make me die with laifing.” Mrs. Blum was rocking from side to side in her chair, and murmuring, “Gott! Gott! Gott!” For a while, again, there was silence; which, again, by and by, Mr. Blum was the first to break. “Sarah,” he declared, addressing his daughter, “them pickles is simply graind.” “I opened a new jar to-day, papa,” Mrs. Koch returned. “Elias Bacharach,” the old gentleman continued, “what _you_ think of them pickles?” “They're delicious,” Elias said. “Vail, sir, my daughter, she make them herself. I think she make the best pickles going.” “Oh, papa,” protested Mrs. Koch, blushing. “How can you say dot, when Aintoinette Morgenthau is seated right next to you? Her pickles beat mine all hollow.” “No,” cried Mrs. Morgenthau, magnanimously; “he's right. You're the boss.” “Vail,” pursued Mr. Blum, judicially, “there is a difference. Aintoinette's pickles is splendid--dot's a faict. Maybe their flavor is just exactly as good as yours. But yours is crisper. My Gott! when I put one of your pickles in my mouth, dot makes me feel said. I never taste no pickles so crisp as them, since I was a little boy in Chairmany, and ate my mamma's. Her pickles--oh, they was loafly, they was maiknificent.” “Ach, papa! You got so much zendimend!” his daughter exclaimed, with deep sympathy. “You ought to taste my mamma's pickles,” Tillie whispered to Elias. “Of course, Mr. Blum is prejudiced in favor of his daughter's.” “Been to the theater lately, Mr. Bacharach?” Mr. Koch called out. “No,” said Elias, little foreseeing the effect of his announcement; “I don't go to the theater much. I'm not very fond of it.” Immediately, from all directions, there was an outburst of astonishment and indignation; for in New York the theater has no patrons more ardent or devoted than the-German Jews. “Oh, Mr. Bacharach!” “How can you say such a thing?” “Gott in Himmel!” “Oh, you don't mean it!”