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I dare him this time he should bring people. No dignity has that man got, the way he brings every one." Even upon her words came a rattling of door, Of door-knob, and a voice through the clamor. "Open quick Sarah! Leon!" A stiffening raced over Mrs. Kantor, so that she sat rigid on her chair-edge, lips compressed, eye darkly upon the shivering door. "Open Sarah!" With a narrowing glance, Mrs.
He wanted to find words, but for consciousness of self could not "It's a wonderful house out there waiting for you, Leon Kantor, and you you're wonderful, too!" "The flowers thanks!" "My father, he sent them. Come, father quick!" Suddenly there was a tight tensity that seemed to crowd up the little room.
At nineteen, under careful auspices of press-agent, the ten singing digits of the son of Abrahm Kantor were insured at ten thousand dollars the finger. At twenty, he had emerged surely and safely from the perilous quicksands which have sucked down whole Lilliputian worlds of infant prodigies.
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!"
"Play that new piece, Leon, the one you set to music. You know. The words by that young boy in the war who wrote such grand poetry before he was killed. The one that always makes poor Mannie laugh. Play it for him, Leon." Her plump little unlined face innocent of fault, Mrs. Isadore Kantor ventured her request, her smile tired with tears." "No, no Rosa not now ma wouldn't want that."
"Bravo bravo! Give us the 'Humoresque' Chopin Nocturne Polonaise 'Humoresque. Bravo bravo!" And even as they stood, hatted and coated, importuning and pressing in upon him, and with a wisp of a smile to the fourth left box, Leon Kantor played them the "Humoresque" of Dvorak, skedaddling, plucking, quirking that laugh on life with a tear behind it.
You hear that? Two thousand! Two thousand! Didn't I tell you didn't I tell you to practise?" Even as Leon Kantor put pen to this princely document, Franz Ferdinand of Serbia, the assassin's bullet cold, lay dead in state, and let slip were the dogs of war.
No word between them, only an unfinished sweetness, waiting to be linked up. Suddenly there burst in Abrahm Kantor, in a carefully rehearsed gale of bluster. "Quick, Leon! I got the car down-stairs. Just fifteen minutes to make the ferry. Quick! The sooner we get him over there the sooner we get him back! I'm right, mamma? Now, now! No waterworks! Get your brother's suit-case, Isadore. Now, now!
"I think it was the nicest thing that ever happened in the world." "All the way here in the train I kept saying, 'Crazy crazy running to tell Leon Lieutenant Kantor good-by when you haven't even seen him three times in three years " "But each each of those three times we we've remembered, Gina."
"Go down this minute do you hear? Rudolph, stop always letting your big brother get the best of you in marbles. Iz-zy!" "In a minute." "Don't let me have to ask you again, Isadore Kantor!" "Aw, ma; I got some 'rithmetic to do. Let Esther go." "Always Esther! Your sister stays right in the front room with her spelling." "Aw, ma; I got spelling, too."
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