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“Well,” Morris began as before, “I guess you don’t know ’bout Isaac Borrachsohn. You dassent to wash out his mouth, ’cause his grandpa’s a Rabbi.”

“I know he is. Is that any reason for Isaac’s swearing?”

“His papa,” Morris began in an awed whisper, “his papa’s the King of Hester Street.”

“Well,” responded Teacher calmly, “that makes no difference to me. No one may swear in this room. And now, Morris, you must run home. Your mother will be wondering where you are.”

Three minutes later Morris’s dark head reappeared. His air was deeply confidential. “Teacher, Missis Bailey,” he began, “I tells you ‘scuse.”

“Well, dear, what is it?” asked Miss Bailey with divided interest, as she adjusted a very large hat with the guidance of a very small looking-glass. “What do you want?”

Again Morris hesitated. “I guess,” he faltered; “I guess you don’t know ’bout Isaac Borrachsohn.”

“What has happened to him? Is he hurt?”

“It’s his papa. Ain’t I told you he’s the King of Hester Street und he’s got dancing balls. My mamma und all the ladies on our block they puts them on stylish und goes on the ball. Und ain’t you see how he’s got a stylish mamma mit di’monds on the hair?”

“Yes,” admitted Miss Bailey, “I saw the diamonds.” Not to have seen the paste buckle which menaced Mrs. Borrachsohn’s left eye would have been to be blind indeed.

“Und extra, you says you should wash out his mouth,” Morris remonstrated. “I guess, maybe, you fools.”

“You’ll see,” said Miss Bailey blithely. “And now trot along, my dear. Good afternoon.”

Teacher hurried into her jacket and was buttoning her gloves when the Monitor of the Gold-Fish Bowl looked timidly in.

“What now?” asked Teacher.

“Well,” said Morris, and breathed hard,

“I guess you don’t know ’bout Isaac Borrachsohn.”

Miss Bailey fell away into helpless laughter. “That would not be your fault, honey, even if it were true,” she said. “But what has he been doing since I saw you?”

“It’s his papa,” answered Morris. “His papa’s got p’rades.”

“He has what?”

“P’rades.”

“And are they very bad? I never heard of them.”

“You don’t know what is p’rades?” cried Morris. “Won’t your mamma leave you see them?”

“What are they?” asked Teacher. “Did you ever see them?”

“Sure I seen p’rades. My papa he takes me in his hand und I stands by the curb und looks on the p’rade. It goes by night. Comes mans und comes cops und comes George Wash’ton und comes Ikey Borrachsohn’s papa, mit proud looks–he makes polite bows mit his head on all the peoples, und comes Teddy Rosenfelt. Und comes cows und more cops und ladies und el’fints, und comes Captain Dreyfus und Terry McGovern. Und comes mans, und mans, und mans–a great big all of mans–und they says: ‘What’s the matter with Ikey Borrachsohn’s papa?’–he ain’t got no sickness, Miss Bailey, on’y it’s polite you say like that on p’rades. Und more mans they says: ‘Nothings is mit him. He’s all right!’ That is what is p’rades. Ikey’s papa’s got them, und so you dassent to wash out his mouth.”

“One more bad word,” was Teacher’s ultimatum; “one more and then I’ll do it.”

Miss Bailey’s commands were not lightly disregarded, and Patrick Brennan spent the ensuing week in vain endeavour to reconcile himself to a condition of things in which he, the first born of the policeman on the beat, and therefore by right of heredity a person of importance in the realm, should tamely submit to usurpation and insult on the part of this mushroom sprig of moneyed aristocracy, this sissy kid in velvet pants, this long-haired dummy of an Isaac Borrachsohn. Teacher could not have meant to cut him off from all hope of vengeance. If she had–then she must be shown that the honour of the house of Brennan was a thing beyond even her jurisdiction. A Brennan had been insulted in his person and in his property. Of course, he must have satisfaction.