oo bad Mr. Schwartz forgot his ear trumpet," Bunch said quickly,
and Ikey was wise to the tip in a minute.

Peaches sniffed suspiciously, and I knew she had the gloves on.

"Mr. Schwartz's affliction is terrible," she said with a chill in every
word. "How did you converse with him before our arrival?"

"Oh! he understands the lip language and can talk back on his fingers,"
I hastened to explain, looking hard at Ikey, whose masklike face gave no
token that he understood what was going on.

"I thought I understood you to say Mr. Schwartz is a real estate
dealer!" Peaches continued, while the thermometer went lower and lower.

"So he is," I replied.

"Then why does his correspondent address him as a Tango Teacher?" friend
wife said slowly, and I could hear the icebergs grinding each other all
around me.

"I think I can explain that," Bunch put in quietly. Then with the utmost
deliberation he looked Ikey in the eye and said, "Mr. Schwartz, it's
really none of my business, but would you mind telling me why you, a
real estate dealer, should have a letter in your possession which is
addressed to you as a Tango Teacher? Answer me on your fingers."

[Illustration]

Ikey delivered the goods.

In a minute he had both paws working overtime and such a knuckle
twisting no mortal man ever indulged in before.

"He says," Bunch began to interpret, "that the letter is not his. It is
intended for Isadore Schwartz, a wicked cousin of his who is a victim of
the cabaret habit. Mr. Schwartz is now complaining bitterly with his
fingers because his letters and those intended for his renegade cousin
become mixed almost every day. These mistakes are made because the
initials are identical. He also says that--he--hopes--the--presence--
of--this--particular--letter--in--his--possession--does--not--offend--
the--ladies--because--while--it--is--addressed--to--a--tango-teacher--
the--contents--are--quite--harmless--being--but--a--small--bill--from--
the--dentist."

Ikey's fingers kept on working nervously, as though he felt it his duty
to wear them out, and the perspiration rolled off poor Bunch's forehead.

"Tell him to cease firing," I said to Bunch; "he'll sprain his fingers
and lose his voice."

Ikey doubled up all his eight fingers and two thumbs in one final shout
and subsided.

"I'm afraid we'll miss the 5.18 train if we don't hurry," said Peaches,
and I could see that the storm was over, although she still glanced
suspicious