oom, and Scharley scrambled to his
feet, a knife grasped firmly in one hand, and bobbed his head cordially.

"Pleased to meetcher," he said.

"This is Mrs. Lubliner, Mr. Scharley," Mrs. Lesengeld said.

"Don't make no difference, Mrs. Lesengeld," Scharley assured her, "any
friend of yours is a friend of mine, so you should sit right down, Mrs.
Lubliner, on account we are all ready to begin."

Then followed a moment of breathless silence while Mrs. Lesengeld dished
up the beetroot soup, and when she placed a steaming bowlful in front
of Scharley he immediately plunged his spoon into it. A moment later he
lifted his eyes to the ceiling.

"Oo-ee!" he exclaimed. "What an elegant soup!"

Mrs. Lesengeld blushed, and after the fashion of a _cordon bleu_ the
world over, she began to decry her own handiwork.

"It should ought to got just a _Bisschen_ more pepper into it," she
murmured.

"_Oser a Stueck_," Scharley declared solemnly, as he consumed the
contents of his bowl in great gurgling inhalations. "There's only one
thing I got to say against it."

He scraped his bowl clean and handed it to Mrs. Lesengeld.

"And that is," he concluded, "that it makes me eat so much of it,
understand me, I'm scared I wouldn't got no room for the brown stewed
fish."

Again he emptied the bowl, and at last the moment arrived when the brown
stewed fish smoked upon the table. Mrs. Lesengeld helped Scharley to a
heaping plateful, and both she and Yetta watched him intently, as with
the deftness of a Japanese juggler he balanced approximately a half
pound of the succulent fish on the end of his fork. For nearly a minute
he blew on it, and when it reached an edible temperature he opened wide
his mouth and thrust the fork load home. Slowly and with great smacking
of his moist lips he chewed away, and then his eyes closed and he laid
down his knife and fork.

"_Gan-eden!_" he declared as he reached across the table and shook hands
with Mrs. Lesengeld.

"Mrs. Lesengeld," he said, "my mother _olav hasholom_ was a good _cook_,
understand me, _aber_ you are a _good cook_, Mrs. Lesengeld, and that's
all there is to it."

Forthwith he resumed his knife and fork, and with only two pauses for
the necessary replenishments, he polished off three platefuls of the
fish, after which he heaved a great sigh of contentment, and as a
prelude to conversation he lit one of B. Gans' choicest cigars.

"There's some dessert coming," Mrs. Lesengeld said.