New York.—Samuel Gembitz, of S. Gembitz & Sons, whose serious illness was reported recently, has retired from the firm, and the business will be carried on by Max Gembitz, Lester Gembitz, and Sidney Gembitz, under the firm style of Gembitz Brothers.
New York.—Samuel Gembitz, of S. Gembitz & Sons, whose serious illness was reported recently, has retired from the firm, and the business will be carried on by Max Gembitz, Lester Gembitz, and Sidney Gembitz, under the firm style of Gembitz Brothers.
As Sam gazed at the item the effect of one week's surreptitious feeding was set at naught, and once more Babette and Doctor Eichendorfer assisted him to his bed. That night he had neither the strength nor the inclination to make his accustomed raid on the ice-box, nor could he resist the administration of Doctor Eichendorfer's tablets; so that the following day found him weaker than ever. It was not until another week had elapsed that his appetite began to assert itself; but when it did he convalesced rapidly. Indeed, at the end of the month, Doctor Eichendorfer permitted him to take short walks with Babette. Gradually the length of these promenades increased until Babette found her entire forenoons monopolized by her father.
"Ain't it awful!" she said to Sam one Sunday morning as they paced slowly along Lenox Avenue. "I am so tied down."
"You ain't tied down," Sam replied ungraciously. "For my part, I would as lief hang around this here place by myself."
"It's all very well for you to talk," Babette rejoined; "but you know very well that in your condition you could drop in the street at any time yet."
"Schmooes!" Sam cried. "I am walking by myself for sixty-five years yet and I guess I could continue to do it."
"But Doctor Eichendorfer says——" Babette began.
"What do I care what Doctor Eichendorfer says!" Sam interrupted. "And, furthermore, supposing I would drop in the street—which anybody could slip oncet in a while on a banana peel, understand me—ain't I got cards in my pocket?"
Babette remained silent for a moment, whereat Sam plucked up new courage.
"Why should you bother yourself toschleppme along like this?" he said. "There's lots of people I could go out with. Ain't it? Take old man HerzoderMrs. Krakauer—they would be glad to go out walking with me; and oncet in a while I could go and call on Mrs. Schrimm maybe."
"Mrs. Schrimm!" Babette exclaimed. "I'm surprised to hear you talk that way. Mrs. Schrimm for years goes around telling everybody that mommerseligleads you a dawg's life."
"Everybody's got a right to their opinion, Babette," Sam said; "but, anyhow, that ain't here nor there. If you wouldn't want me to go around and see Mrs. Schrimm I wouldn't."
Babette snorted.
"In the first place," she said, "you couldn't go unless I go with you; and, in the second place, you couldn't get me to go there for a hundred dollars."
Beyond suggesting that a hundred dollars was a lot of money, Sam made no further attempt to secure his liberty that morning; but on the following day he discreetly called his daughter's attention to a full-page advertisement in the morning paper.
"Ain't you was telling me the other evening you need to got some table napkins, Babette?" he asked.
Babette nodded.
"Well, here it is in the paper that new concern, Weldon, Jones & Company, is selling to-day napkins at three dollars a dozen—the best damask napkins," he concluded.
Babette seized the paper and five minutes later she was poking hatpins into her scalp with an energy that made Sam's eyes water.
"Where are you going, Babette?" he said.
"I'm going downtown to that sale of linens," she said, "and I'll be back to take you out at one o'clock."
"Don't hurry on my account," Sam said. "I've got enough here in the paper to keep me busy until to-night yet."
Five minutes later the basement door banged and Sam jumped to his feet. With the agility of a man half his age he ran upstairs to the parlour floor and put on his hat and coat; and by the time Babette had turned the corner of Lenox Avenue Sam walked out of the areaway of his old-fashioned, three-story-and-basement, high-stoop residence on One Hundred and Eighteenth Street en route for Mrs. Schrimm's equally old-fashioned residence on One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street. There he descended the area steps; and finding the door ajar he walked into the basement dining-room.
"Wie gehts, Mrs. Schrimm!" he cried cheerfully.
"Oo-ee! What aSchreckyou are giving me!" Mrs. Schrimm exclaimed. "This is Sam Gembitz, ain't it?"
"Sure it is," Sam replied. "Ain't you afraid somebody is going to come in and steal something on you?"
"That's that girl again!" Mrs. Schrimm said as she bustled out to the areaway and slammed the door. "That's one of themUngarischergirls, Mr. Gembitz, which all they could do is to eat up your whole ice-box empty and go out dancing onBauernballs till all hours of the morning. Housework is something they don't know nothing about at all. Well, Mr. Gembitz, I am hearing such tales about you—you are dying, and so on."
"WarumMister Gembitz?" Sam said. "Ain't you always called me Sam, Henrietta?"
Mrs. Schrimm blushed. In the lifetime of the late Mrs. Gembitz she had been a constant visitor at the Gembitz house, but under Babette's chilling influence the friendship had withered until it was only a memory.
"Why not?" she said. "I certainly know you long enough, Sam."
"Going on thirty-five years, Henrietta," Sam said, "when you and me and Regina come over here together. Things is very different nowadays, Henrietta. Me, I am an old man already."
"What do you mean old?" Mrs. Schrimm cried. "When myGrossvater seligwas sixty-eight he gets married for the third time yet."
"Them old-timers was a different proposition entirely, Henrietta," Sam said. "If I would be talking about getting married, Henrietta, the least that happens to me is my children would put me in a lunatic asylum yet."
"Yow!" Mrs. Schrimm murmured skeptically.
"Wouldn't they?" Sam continued. "Well, you could just bet your life they would. Why, I am sick only a couple weeks or so, Henrietta, and what do them boys do? They practically throw me out of my business yet and tell me I am retired."
"And you let 'em?" Mrs. Schrimm asked.
"What could I do?" Sam said. "I'm a sick man, Henrietta. Doctor Eichendorfer says I wouldn't live a year yet."
"Doctor Eichendorfer says that!" Mrs. Schrimm rejoined. "And do you told me that you are taking Doctor Eichendorfer's word for it?"
"Doctor Eichendorfer is aRosher, I admit," Sam answered; "but he's a pretty good doctor, Henrietta."
"For thegesund, yes," Mrs. Schrimm admitted. "But if my cat would be sick, Sam, and Doctor Eichendorfer charges two cents a call yet, I wouldn't have him in my house at all. I got too much respect for my cat, Sam. With that feller, as soon as he comes into the bedroom he says the patient is dying; because if the poor feller does die, understand me, then Eichendorfer is a good prophet, and if he gets better then Eichendorfer is a good doctor. He always fixes it so he gets the credit both ways. But you got to acknowledge one thing about that feller, Sam—he knows how to charge, Sam; and he's a good collector. Everybody says so."
Sam nodded sadly.
"I give you right about that," he said.
"And, furthermore," Mrs. Schrimm began, "he——"
Mrs. Schrimm proceeded no further, however, for the sound of a saucepan boiling over brought her suddenly to her feet and she dashed into the kitchen.
Two minutes later a delicate, familiar odour assailed Sam's nostrils, and when Mrs. Schrimm returned she found him unconsciously licking his lips.
"Yes, Sam," she declared, "themUngarischergirls is worser as nobody in the kitchen. Pretty near ruins my whole lunch, and I got Mrs. Krakauer coming, too. You know what a talker that woman is; and if I would give her something which it is a little burned, y'understand, the whole of New York hears about it."
"Well, Henrietta," Sam said as he rose and seized his hat, "I must be going."
"Going!" Mrs. Schrimm cried. "Why, you're only just coming. And besides, Sam, you are going to stop to lunch, too."
"Lunch!" Sam exclaimed. "Why, I don't eat lunch no more, Henrietta. All the doctor allows me is crackers and milk."
"Do you mean Doctor Eichendorfer allows you that?" Mrs. Schrimm asked, and Sam nodded.
"Then all I could say is," she continued, "that you are going to stay to lunch, because if Doctor Eichendorfer allows a man only crackers and milk, Sam, that's a sign he could eatWienerwurst, dill pickles, andHandkäse.Aberif Doctor Eichendorfer says you could eat steaks and chops, stick to boiled eggs and milk—because steaks would kill you sure."
"But Babette would be back at one o'clock and if I didn't get home before then she would take my head off for me."
Mrs. Schrimm nodded sympathetically.
"So you wouldn't stay for lunch?" she said.
"I couldn't," Sam protested.
"Very well, then," Mrs. Schrimm cried as she hurried to the kitchen. "Sit right down again, Sam; I would be right back."
When Mrs. Schrimm appeared a few minutes later she bore a cloth-covered tray which she placed on the table in front of Sam.
"You got until half-past twelve—ain't it?" she said; "so take your time, Sam. You should chew your food good, especially something which it is already half chopped, likegefüllte Rinderbrust."
"Gefüllte Rinderbrust!" Sam cried. "Why"—he poked at it with his knife—"Why, this always makes me sick." He balanced a good mouthful on his fork. "But, anyhow——" he concluded, and the rest of the sentence was an incoherent mumbling as he fell to ravenously. Moreover, he finished the succulent dish, gravy and all, and washed down the whole with a cup of coffee—not Hammersmith's coffee or the dark brown fluid, with a flavour of stale tobacco pipe, that Miss Babette Gembitz had come to persuade herself was coffee, but a fragrant decoction, softened by rich, sweet cream and containing all the delicious fragrance of the best thirty-five-cent coffee, fresh-ground from the grocer's.
"Ja, Henrietta," Sam cried as he rose to leave; "I am going to weddings and fashionable hotels, and I am eating with high-grade customers in restaurants which you would naturally take a high-grade customer to, understand me; but—would you believe me, Henrietta!—I am yet got to taste such coffeeodersuchgefüllte Rinderbrustas you are giving me now."
Mrs. Schrimm beamed her acknowledgment of the compliment.
"To-morrow you would get some chicken fricassee, Sam," she said, "if you would get here at half-past eleven sharp."
Sam shook her hand fervently.
"Believe me, I would try my best," he said; and fifteen minutes later, when Babette entered the Gembitz residence on One Hundred and Eighteenth Street, she found Sam as she had left him—fairly buried in the financial page of the morning paper.
"Well, Babette," Sam cried, "so you see I went out and I took my walk and I come back and nothing happened to me. Ain't it?"
Babette nodded.
"I'll get you your lunch right away," she said; and without removing her hat and jacket, she brought him a glass of buttermilk and six plain crackers. Sam watched her until she had ascended the stairs to the first floor; then he stole on tiptoe to the sink in the butler's pantry and emptied the buttermilk down the wastepipe. A moment later he opened the door of a bookcase that stood near the mantelpiece and deposited five of the crackers behind six full-morocco volumes entitled "Prayers for Festivals and Holy Days." He was busily engaged in eating the remaining cracker when Babette returned; and all that afternoon he seemed so contented and even jovial that Babette determined to permit him his solitary walk on the following day.
Thus Sam not only ate the chicken fricassee but three days afterward, when he visited Mrs. Schrimm upon the representation to Babette that he would sit all the morning in Mt. Morris Park, he suggested to Henrietta that he show some return for her hospitality by taking her to luncheon at a fashionable hotel downtown.
"My restaurant days is over," Mrs. Schrimm declared.
"To oblige me," Sam pleaded. "I ain't been downtown in—excuse me—such a helluva long time I don't know what it's like at all."
"If you are so anxious to get downtown, Sam," Mrs. Schrimm rejoined, "why don't you go down and get lunch with Henry? He'd be glad to have you."
"What, alone?" Sam cried. "Why, if Babette would hear of it——"
"Who's going to tell her?" Mrs. Schrimm asked, and Sam seized his hat with trembling fingers.
"By jimminy, I would do it!" he said, and then he paused irresolutely. "But how could I get home in time if I did?"
A moment later he snapped his fingers.
"I got an idee!" he exclaimed. "You are such good friends with Mrs. Krakauer—ain't it?"
Mrs. Schrimm nodded.
"Then you should do me the favour, Henrietta, and go over to Mrs. Krakauer and tell her she should ring up Babette and tell her I am over at her house and I wouldn't be back till three o'clock."
"Couldn't you go downtown if you want to?" Mrs. Schrimm replied. "Must you got to ask Babette's permission first?"
Sam nodded slowly.
"You don't know that girl, Henrietta," he said bitterly. "She is Reginaseligover again—only worser, Henrietta."
"All right. I would do as you want," Mrs. Schrimm declared.
"Only one thing I must got to tell you," Sam said as he made for the door: "don't let Mrs. Krakauer talk too much, Henrietta, because that girl is suspicious like a credit man. She don't believe nothing nobody tells her."
When Sam entered the showroom of Henry Schrimm's place of business, half an hour later, Henry hastened to greet him. "Wie gehts, Mr. Gembitz?" he cried.
He drew forward a chair and Sam sank into it as feebly as he considered appropriate to the rôle of a convalescent.
"I'm a pretty sick man, Henry," he said, "and I feel I ain't long for this world."
He allowed his head to loll over his left shoulder in an attitude of extreme fatigue; in doing so, however, his eye rested for a moment upon a shipping clerk who was arranging Henry's sample garments on some old-fashioned racks.
"Say, lookyhere, Henry," Sam exclaimed, raising his head suddenly, "how the devil could you let a feller like that ruin your whole sample line?"
He jumped from his chair and strode across the showroom.
"Schlemiel!" he cried. "What for you are wrinkling them garments like that?"
He seized a costume from the astonished shipping clerk and for half an hour he arranged and rearranged Henry's samples until the job was finished to his satisfaction.
"Mr. Gembitz," Henry protested, "sit down for a minute. You would make yourself worse."
"What d'ye mean, make myself worse?" Sam demanded. "I am just as much able to do this as you are, Henry. Where do you keep your piece goods, Henry?"
Henry led the way to the cutting room and Sam Gembitz inspected a dozen bolts of cloth that were piled in a heap against the wall.
"That's just what I thought, Henry," Sam cried. "You let them fellers keep the place here like a pig-sty."
"Them's only a lot of stickers, Mr. Gembitz," Henry explained.
"Stickers!" Sam repeated. "What d'ye mean stickers? That's the same mistake a whole lot of people makes. There ain't no such thing as stickers, Henry. Sometimes you get ahold of some piece goods which is out of demand for the time being, Henry; but sooner or later the fashions would change, Henry, and then the stickers ain't stickers no more. They're live propositions again."
Henry made no reply and Sam continued:
"Yes, Henry," he went on, "some people is always willing they should throw out back numbers which really ain't back numbers at all. Take them boys of mine, for instance, Henry, and see how glad they was to get rid of me on account they think I am a back number; but I ain't, Henry. And just to show you I ain't, Henry, do you happen to have on hand some made-up garments which you think is stickers?"
Henry nodded.
"Well, if I don't come downtown to-morrow morning and with all them there stickers sold for you," Sam cried, "my name ain't Sam Gembitz at all."
"Say, lookyhere, Mr. Gembitz," Henry protested, "you would make yourself sick again. Come out and have a bite of lunch with me."
"That's all right, Henry," Sam replied. "I ain't hungry for lunch—I am hungry for work; and if you would be so good and show me them stickers which you got made up, Henry, I could assort 'em in lots, and to-morrow morning I would take a look-in on some of them upper Third Avenue stores, Henry. And if I don't get rid of 'em for you, understand me, you could got right uptown and tell Babette. Otherwise you should keep your mouth shut and you and me does a whole lot of business together."
Half an hour later Sam carefully effaced the evidences of his toil with soap and water and a whisk-broom, and began his journey uptown. Under one arm he carried a bundle of sample garments that might have taxed the strength of a much younger man.
This bundle he deposited for safekeeping with the proprietor of a cigar store on Lenox Avenue; and, after a final brush-down by the bootblack on the corner, he made straight for his residence on One Hundred and Eighteenth Street. When he entered he found Babette impatiently awaiting him.
"Why didn't you stay all night, popper?" she demanded indignantly. "Here I am all dressed and waiting to go downtown—and you keep me standing around like this."
"Another time you shouldn't wait at all," Sam retorted. "If you want to go downtown, go ahead. I could always ask the girl for something if I should happen to need it."
He watched Babette leave the house with a sigh of relief, and for the remainder of the afternoon he made intricate calculations with the stub of a lead pencil on the backs of old envelopes. Ten minutes before Babette returned he thrust the envelopes into his pocket and smiled with satisfaction, for he had computed to a nicety just how low a price he could quote on Henry Schrimm's stickers, so as to leave a margin of profit for Henry after his own commissions were paid.
The following morning Sam arrayed himself with more than ordinary care, and promptly at ten o'clock he seized his cane and started for the door.
"Where are you going?" Babette demanded.
"I guess I would take a little walk in the park," he said to his daughter in tremulous tones, and Babette eyed him somewhat suspiciously.
"Furthermore," he said boldly, "if you want to come with me you could do so. The way you are looking so yellow lately, Babette, a little walk in the park wouldn't do you no harm."
Sam well knew that his daughter was addicted to the practice of facial massage, and he felt sure that any reference to yellowness would drive Babette to her dressing-table and keep her safely engaged with mirror and cold cream until past noon.
"Don't stay out long," she said, and Sam nodded.
"I would be back when I am hungry," he replied; "and maybe I would take a look in at Mrs. Krakauer. If you get anxious about me telephone her."
Ten minutes later he called at the cigar store on Lenox Avenue and secured his samples, after which he rang up Mrs. Schrimm.
"Hello, Henrietta!" he shouted, "This is Sam—yes, Sam Gembitz. What is the matter? Nothing is the matter. Huh? Sure, I feel all right. I give you a scare? Why should I give you a scare, Henrietta? Sure, we are old friends; but that ain't the point, Henrietta. I want to ask you you should do me something as a favour. You should please be so good and ring up Mrs. Krakauer, which you should tell her, if Babette rings her up and asks for me any time between now and six o'clock to-night, she should say I was there, but I just left. Did you get that straight? All right. Good-bye."
He heaved a sigh of relief as he paid for the telephone call and pocketed a handful of cheap cigars.
"Don't you want a boy to help you carry them samples, Mr. Gembitz?" the proprietor asked.
"Do I look like I wanted a boy to help me carry samples?" Sam retorted indignantly, and a moment later he swung aboard an eastbound crosstown car.
It was past noon when Sam entered Henry Schrimm's showroom and his face bore a broad, triumphant grin.
"Well, Henry," he shouted, "what did I told you? To a feller which he is knowing how to sell goods there ain't no such things as stickers."
"Did you get rid of 'em?" Henry asked.
Sam shook his head.
"No, Henry," he said, "I didn't get rid of 'em—I sold 'em; and, furthermore, Henry, I sold four hundred dollars' worth more just like 'em to Mr. Rosett, of the Rochelle Department Store, which you should send him right away a couple sample garments of them 1040's."
"What d'ye mean, 1040's?" Henry asked. "I ain't got no such lot number in my place."
"No, I know you ain't; but I mean our style 1040—that is to say, Gembitz Brothers' style 1040."
Henry blushed.
"I don't know what you are talking about at all," he said.
"No?" Sam retorted slyly. "Well, I'll describe it to you, Henry. It's what you would call a princess dress in tailor-made effects. The waist's got lapels of the same goods, with a little braid on to it, two plaits in the middle and one on each shoulder; yoke and collar of silk net; and——"
"You mean my style number 2018?" Henry asked.
"I don't mean nothing, Henry," Sam declared, "because you shouldn't throw me no bluffs, Henry. I seen one of them garments in your cutting room only yesterday, Henry, which, if it wasn't made up in my old factory, I would eat it, Henry—and Doctor Eichendorfer says I got to be careful with my diet at that."
Henry shrugged.
"Well," he began, "there ain't no harm if——"
"Sure, there ain't no harm, Henry," Sam said, "because them garments is going like hot cakes. A big concern like Falkstatter, Fein & Company takes over three thousand dollars' worth from the boys for their stores in Sarahcuse, Rochester, and Buffalo."
"Falkstatter, Fein & Company!" Henry cried. "Does them boys of yours sell Falkstatter, Fein & Company?"
"Sure," Sam answered. "Why not?"
"Why not?" Henry repeated. "Ain't you heard?"
"I ain't heard nothing," Sam replied; "but I know that concern for twenty years since already, Henry, and they always pay prompt to the day."
"Sure, I know," Henry said; "but only this morning I seen Sol Klinger in the subway and Sol tells me Simon Falkstatter committed suicide last night."
"Committed suicide!" Sam gasped. "What for?"
"I don't know what for," Henry replied; "but nobody commits suicide for pleasure, Mr. Gembitz, and if a man is in business, like Falkstatter, when Marshall Field's was new beginners already, Mr. Gembitz, and he sees he is got to bust up, Mr. Gembitz, what should he do?"
Sam rose to his feet and seized his hat and cane.
"Going home so soon, Mr. Gembitz?" Henry asked.
"No, I ain't going home, Henry," Sam replied. "I'm going over to see my boys. I guess they need me."
He started for the door, but as he reached it he paused.
"By the way, Henry," he said, "on my way down I stopped in to see that new concern there on Fifth Avenue—Weldon, Jones & Company—and you should send 'em up also a couple of them princess dresses in brown and smoke. I'll see you to-morrow."
"Do you think you could get down again to-morrow?" Henry asked.
"I don't know, Henry; but if lies could get me here I guess I could," Sam replied. "Because, the way my children fixes me lately, I am beginning to be such a liar that you could really say I am an expert."
Ten minutes later Sam Gembitz walked into the elevator of his late place of business and smiled affably at the elevator boy, who returned his greeting with a perfunctory nod.
"Well, what's new around here, Louis?" Sam asked.
"I dunno, Mr. Gembitz," the elevator boy said. "I am only just coming back from my lunch."
"I mean what happens since I am going away, Louis?" Sam continued.
"I didn't know you went away at all, Mr. Gembitz," the elevator boy replied.
"Dummer Esel!" Sam exclaimed. "Don't you know I was sick and I am going away from hereschonthree months ago pretty near?"
The elevator boy stopped the car at Gembitz Brothers' floor and spat deliberately.
"In the building is twenty tenants, Mr. Gembitz," he said, "and the way them fellers is sitting up all hours of the night, shikkering and gambling, if I would keep track which of 'em is sick and which ain't sick, Mr. Gembitz, I wouldn't got no time to run the elevator at all."
If the elevator boy's indifference made Sam waver in the belief that he was sorely missed downtown the appearance of his late showroom convinced him of his mistake. The yellow-pine fixtures had disappeared, and in place of his old walnut table there had been installed three rolltop desks of the latest Wall Street design.
At the largest of these sat Max, who wheeled about suddenly as his father entered.
"What are you doing down here?" he demanded savagely.
"Ain't I got no right in my own business at all?" Sam asked mildly.
"Sidney!" Max cried, and in response his youngest brother appeared.
"Put on your hat and take the old man home," he said.
"One minute, Sidney," Sam said. "In the first place, Max, before we talk about going home, I want to ask you a question: How much does Falkstatter, Fein & Company owe us?"
"Us?" Max repeated.
"Well—you?" Sam replied.
"What's that your business?" Max retorted.
"What is that my business?" Sam gasped. "A question! Did you ever hear the like, Sidney? He asks me what it is my business supposing Falkstatter, Fein & Company owes us a whole lot of money! Ain't that a fine way to talk, Sidney?"
Sidney's pasty face coloured and he bit his lips nervously.
"Max is right, popper," he said. "You ain't got no call to come down here and interfere in our affairs. I'll put on my hat and go right home with you."
It was now Sam's turn to blush, and he did so to the point of growing purple with rage.
"Don't trouble yourself," he cried; "because I ain't going home!"
"What d'ye mean, y'ain't going home?" Max said threateningly.
"I mean what I say!" Sam declared. "I mean I ain't going home never again. You are throwing me out of my business, Max, and you would soon try to throw me out of my home, too, if I couldn't protect myself. But I ain't so old and I ain't so sick but what I could take care of myself, Max."
"Why, Doctor Eichendorfer says——" Sidney began.
"Doctor Eichendorfer!" Sam roared. "Who is Doctor Eichendorfer? He is a doctor, not a lawyer, Max, and maybe he knows about kidneys, Max; but he don't know nothing about business, Max! And, so help me, Max, I would give you till Wednesday afternoon three o'clock; if you don't send me a certified check for five thousand dollars over to Henry Schrimm's place, I would go right down and see Henry D. Feldman, and I would bust your business—my business!—open from front to rear, so that there wouldn't be a penny left for nobody—except Henry D. Feldman."
Here he drew a deep breath.
"And, furthermore, Max," he concluded, as he made for the door, "don't try any monkey business with spreading reports I am gone crazy or anything, because I know that's just what you would do, Max! And if you would, Max, instead of five thousand dollars I would want ten thousand dollars. And if I wouldn't get it, Max, Henry D. Feldman would—so what is the difference?"
He paused with his hand on the elevator bell and faced his sons again.
"Solomon was right, Max," he concluded. "He was an old-timer, Max; but, just the same, he knew what he was talking about when he said that you bring up a child in the way he should go and when he gets old he bites you like a serpent's tooth yet!"
At this juncture the elevator door opened and Sam delivered his ultimatum.
"But you got a different proposition here, boys," he said; "and before you get through with me I would show you that oncet in a while a father could got a serpent's tooth, too—and don't you forget it!"
"Mr. Gembitz," the elevator boy interrupted, "there is here in the building already twenty tenants; and other people as yourself wants to ride in the elevator, too, Mr. Gembitz."
Thus admonished, Sam entered the car and a moment later he found himself on the sidewalk. Instinctively he walked toward the subway station, although he had intended to return to Henry Schrimm's office; but, before he again became conscious of his surroundings, he was seated in a Lenox Avenue express with an early edition of the evening paper held upside down before him.
"Nah, well," he said to himself, "what is the difference? I wouldn't try to do no more business to-day."
He straightened up the paper and at once commenced to study the financial page. Unknown to his children, he had long rented a safe-deposit box, in which reposed ten first-mortgage bonds of a trunkline railroad, together with a few shares of stock purchased by him during the Northern Pacific panic. He noted, with a satisfied grin, that the stock showed a profit of fifty points, while the bonds had advanced three eighths of a point.
"Three eighths ain't much," he muttered as he sat still while the train left One Hundred and Sixteenth Street station, "but there is a whole lot ofrabonimwhich would marry you for less than thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents."
He threw the paper to the floor as the train stopped at One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street and, without a moment's hesitation, ascended to the street level and walked two blocks north to One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street. There he rang the basement bell of an old-fashioned brown-stone residence and Mrs. Schrimm in person opened the door. When she observed her visitor she shook her head slowly from side to side and emitted inarticulate sounds through her nose, indicative of extreme commiseration.
"Ain't you going to get the devil when Babette sees you!" she said at last. "Mrs. Krakauer tells her six times over the 'phone already you just went home."
"Could I help it what that woman tells Babette?" Sam asked. "And, anyhow, Henrietta, what do I care what Mrs. Krakauer tells Babette or what Babette tells Mrs. Krakauer? And, furthermore, Henrietta, Babette could never give me the devil no more!"
"No?" Mrs. Schrimm said as she led the way to the dining-room. "You're talking awful big, Sam, for a feller which he never calls his soul his own in his own home yet."
"Them times is past, Henrietta," Sam answered as he sat down and removed his hat. "To-day things begin differently for me, Henrietta; because, Henrietta, you and me is old enough to know our own business, understand me—and if I would say 'black' you wouldn't say 'white.' And if you would say 'black' I would say 'black'."
Mrs. Schrimm looked hard at Sam and then she sat down on the sofa.
"What d'ye mean, black?" she gasped.
"I'm only talking in a manner of speaking, Henrietta," Sam explained. "What I mean is this."
He pulled an old envelope out of his pocket and explored his waistcoat for a stump of lead pencil.
"What I mean is," he continued, wetting the blunt point with his tongue, "ten bonds from Canadian Western, first mortgage from gold,mitagarantirtfrom the Michigan Midland Railroad, ten thousand dollars, interest at 6 per cent.—is six hundred dollars a year, ain't it?"
"Ye-ee-s," Mrs. Schrimm said hesitatingly. "Und?"
"Und," Sam said triumphantly, "fifty shares from Central Pacific at 154 apiece is seventy-seven hundred dollars, with dividends since thirty years they are paying it at 4 per cent. is two hundred dollars a year more, ain't it?"
Mrs. Schrimm nodded.
"What has all this got to do with me, Sam?" she asked.
Sam cleared his throat.
"A wife should know how her husband stands," he said huskily. "Ain't it so, Henrietta,leben?"
Mrs. Schrimm nodded again.
"Did you speak to Henry anything, Sam?" she asked.
"I didn't say nothing to Henry yet," Sam replied; "but if he's satisfied with the business I done for him this morning I would make him a partnership proposition."
"But, listen here to me, Sam," Mrs. Schrimm protested. "Me I am already fifty-five years old; and a man like you which you got money, understand me, if you want to get married you could find plenty girls forty years old which would only be glad they should marry you—good-looking girls, too, Sam."
"Koosh!" Sam cried, for he had noted a tear steal from the corner of Mrs. Schrimm's eye. He rose from his chair and seated himself on the sofa beside her. "You don't know what you are talking about," he said as he clasped her hand. "Good looks to some people is red cheeks and black hair, Henrietta; but with me it is different. The best-looking woman in the whole world to me, Henrietta, is got gray hair, with good brains underneath—and she is also a little fat, too, understand me; but the heart is big underneath and the hands is red, but they got red doingmitzvahsfor other people, Henrietta."
He paused and cleared his throat again.
"And so, Henrietta," he concluded, "if you want me to marry a good-looking girl—this afternoon yet we could go downtown and get the license."
Mrs. Schrimm sat still for two minutes and then she disengaged her hand from Sam's eager clasp.
"All I got to do is to put on a clean waist," she said, "and I would get my hat on in ten minutes."
"The fact of the matter is," Max Gembitz said, two days later, "we ain't got the ready money."
Sam Gembitz nodded. He sat at a desk in Henry Schrimm's office—a new desk of the latest Wall Street design; and on the third finger of his left hand a plain gold band was surmounted by a three-carat diamond ring, the gift of the bride.
"No?" he said, with a rising inflection.
"And you know as well as I do, popper, we was always a little short this time of the year in our business!" Max continued.
"Our business?" Sam repeated. "You mean your business, Max."
"What difference does it make?" Max asked.
"It makes a whole lot of difference, Max," Sam declared; "because, if I would be a partner in your business, Max, I would practically got to be one of my own competitors."
"One of your own competitors!" Max cried. "What d'ye mean?"
For answer Sam handed his son the following card:
SAMUEL GEMBITZ HENRY SCHRIMMGEMBITZ & SCHRIMMCLOAKS & SUITS—West Nineteenth StreetNew York
SAMUEL GEMBITZ HENRY SCHRIMM
GEMBITZ & SCHRIMM
CLOAKS & SUITS
—West Nineteenth StreetNew York
Max gazed at the card for five minutes and then he placed it in his waistcoat-pocket.
"So you are out to do us—what?" Max said bitterly.
"What are you talking about—out to do you?" Sam replied. "How could an old-timer like me do three up-to-date fellers like you and Sidney and Lester? I'm a back number, Max. I ain't got gumption enough to make up a whole lot of garments, all in one style, pastel shades, and sell 'em all to a concern which is on its last legs, Max. I couldn't play this hereBaytzimmerfeller's pool, Max, and I couldn't sit up all hours of the night eating lobsters and oysters and ham and bacon in the Harlem Winter Garden, Max."
He paused to indulge in a malicious grin.
"Furthermore, Max," he continued, "how could a poor, sick old man compete with a lot of healthy young fellers like you boys? I've got Bright's Disease, Max, and I could drop down in the street any minute. And if you don't believe me, Max, you should ask Doctor Eichendorfer. He will tell you the same."
Max made no reply, but took up his hat from the top of Sam's desk.
"Wait a minute, Max," Sam said. "Don't be in such a hurry, Max, because, after all, you boys is my sons, anyhow; and so I got a proposition to make to you."
He pointed to a chair and Max sat down.
"First, Max," he went on, "I wouldn't ask you for cash. What I want is you should give me a note at one year for five thousand dollars, without interest."
"So far as I could see," Max interrupted, "we wouldn't be in no better condition to pay you five thousand dollars in one year as we are to-day."
"I didn't think you would be," Sam said, "but I figured that all out; and if, before the end of one year, you three boys would turn around and go to work and get a decent, respectable feller which he would marry Babette and make a home for her, understand me, I would give you back your note."
"But how could we do that?" Max exclaimed.
"I leave that to you," Sam replied; "because, anyhow, Max, there's plenty fellers which is designersoderbookkeepers which would marry Babette in a minute if they could get a partnership in an old, established concern like yours."
"But Babette don't want to get married," Max declared.
"Don't she?" Sam retorted. "Well, if a woman stands hours and hours in front of the glass and rubs her facemitcold cream andGott weisswhat else, Max, if she don't want to get married I'd like to know what she does want."
Again Max rose to his feet.
"I'll tell the boys what you say," he murmured.
"Sure," Sam said heartily, "and tell 'em also they should drop in oncet in a while and see mommer and me up in One Hundred and Twenty-seventh Street."
Max nodded.
"And tell Babette to come, also," Sam added; but Max shook his head.
"I'm afraid she wouldn't do it," he declared. "She says yesterday she wouldn't speak to you again so long as you live."
Sam emitted a sigh that was a trifle too emphatic in its tremulousness.
"I'm sorry she feels that way, Max," he said; "but it's an old saying and a true one, Max: you couldn't make no omelets without beating eggs."
CHAPTER FIVE
MAKING OVER MILTON
"Takeit from me, Mr. Zwiebel, that boy would never amount to nothing," said Levy Rothman, as they sat in the rear room of Wasserbauer's Café and restaurant.
"You are mistaken, Mr. Rothman," Charles Zwiebel replied; "the boy is only a little wild, y'understand, and if I could get him to settle down and learn a business, Mr. Rothman, he would settle down. After all, Mr. Rothman, he is only a boy, y'understand."
"At twenty-one," Rothman replied, "a boy ain't a boy no longer, Mr. Zwiebel. Either he is a man or he is a loafer, y'understand."
"The boy ain't no loafer, Mr. Rothman. He's got a good heart, Mr. Rothman, and he is honest like the day. That boy wouldn't dream of taking no money from the cash drawer, Mr. Rothman, without he would tell me all about it afterward. That's the kind of boy he is, Mr. Rothman; and certainly Mrs. Zwiebel she thinks a whole lot of him, too. Not that he doesn't think a whole lot of her, Mr. Rothman. Yes, Mr. Rothman, that boy thinks a whole lot of his mother. If he would stay out all night he always says to her the next morning, 'Mommer, you shouldn't worry about me, because I could always take care of myself,' and I bet yer that boy could take care of himself, too, Mr. Rothman. I seen that boy sit in a game with such sharks like Moe Rabiner and Marks Pasinsky, and them fellers couldn't do nothing with him. Yes, Mr. Rothman, that boy is a natural-born pinochle player."
"Might you think that a recommendation, maybe?" Rothman exclaimed.
"Well, Mr. Rothman, my brother Sol,selig, used to say, 'Show me a good pinochle player and I will show you a natural-born salesman.'"
"Yes, Mr. Zwiebel," Rothman retorted, "and show me a salesman what is a good pinochle player, Mr. Zwiebel, and I will also show you a feller what fools away his time and sells the firm's samples. No, Mr. Zwiebel, if I would take your boy in my place I certainly wouldn't take him because he is a good pinochle player. Ain't he got no other recommendation, Mr. Zwiebel?"
"Well, certainly, everybody what that boy worked for, Mr. Rothman, couldn't say enough about him," Mr. Zwiebel said enigmatically; "but, anyhow, what's the use talking, Mr. Rothman? I got this proposition to make you: Take the boy into your place and learn him the business, and all you would got to pay him is five dollars a week. Myself I will put ten to it, and you could pay him fifteen, and the boy wouldn't got to know nothing about it."
"I wouldn't give him five dollars a week or five cents, neither," Mr. Rothman answered in tones of finality. "Because I don't need nobody in my place at present, and if I would need somebody I would hire it a feller what knows the business. I got lots of experience with new beginners already, Mr. Zwiebel, and I always lost money by 'em."
Mr. Zwiebel received this ultimatum in so crest-fallen a manner that Rothman's flinty heart was touched.
"Lookyhere, Mr. Zwiebel," he said, "I got a boy, too, only,Gott sei dank, the young feller ain't a loafer, y'understand. He's now in his third year in law school, and I never had a bit of trouble with that boy. Because I don't want you to feel bad, Mr. Zwiebel, but if I do say it myself, that boy is a good boy, y'understand; none better, Mr. Zwiebel, I don't care where you would go. That boy comes home, y'understand, every night, y'understand, except the night when he goes to lodge meeting, and he takes down his books and learns it till his mommer's got to say to him: 'Ferdy,lieben, you would ruin your eyes.' That boy is only twenty-three, Mr. Zwiebel, and already he is way up in the I.O.M.A. They give that young feller full charge for their annual ball two years already, and——"
"Excuse me, Mr. Rothman," Zwiebel broke in. "I got to get back to my business, and so, therefore, I want to make you a final proposition. Take the boy into your place and I would give you each week fifteen dollars you should pay him for his wages."
"I wouldn't positively do nothing of the kind," Rothman cried.
"And"—Mr. Zwiebel said as though he were merely extending his remark instead of voicing an idea that had just occurred to him—"and I will invest in your business two thousand dollars which you would only pay me savings-bank interest."
Rothman's eyes glittered, but he only laughed by way of reply.
"Ain't that a fair proposition?"
"You must think I need money bad in my business," Rothman commented.
"Every man in the cloak and suit business needs money this year, Rothman," said Zwiebel, who was in the cigar business. His specialty was the manufacture of cigars for the entertainment of cloak and suit customers, and his own financial affairs accurately reflected conditions in the woman's outer garment trade. For instance, when cloak buyers are anxious to buy goods the frugal manufacturer withholds his hospitality; but if the demand for cloaks is slack, then M to Z customers are occasionally regaled with cigars from the "gilt-edged" box. This season Zwiebel was selling more and better cigars than for many years past, and he made his deductions accordingly.
"Yes, Mr. Rothman," Zwiebel concluded, "there's plenty cloak and suit men would be glad to get a young feller like my Milton on such terms what I offer it."
"Well, why don't you talk to 'em about it?" Rothman replied. "I am satisfied."
But there was something about Rothman's face that to Zwiebel augured well for his son's regeneration. Like the advertised loft buildings in the cloak and suit district, Mr. Rothman's face was of steel construction throughout, and Zwiebel felt so sure of Rothman's ability to cope with Milton's shortcomings that he raised the bid to three thousand dollars. Firmness, however, is a quality that makes for success in every phase of business, particularly in bargaining; and when the deal was closed Rothman had hired Milton Zwiebel for nothing a week. Mr. Zwiebel, on his part, had agreed to invest five thousand dollars in Rothman's business, the same to bear interest at 3 per cent. per annum. He had also bound himself to repay Rothman the weekly salary of fifteen dollars which Milton was to receive, and when they parted they shook hands warmly on the transaction.
"Well, Mr. Rothman," Zwiebel concluded, "I hope you will see to it the boy behaves himself."
Rothman's mouth described a downward arc.
"Don't worry, Mr. Zwiebel," he said; "leave it to me."
Milton Zwiebel had not found hismétier. He had tried almost everything in the Business Directory from Architectural Iron Work to Yarns, Domestic and Imported, and had ascertained all of them to be lacking in the one quality he craved—excitement.
"That boy is looking for trouble all the time, mommer," Charles Zwiebel said to his wife on the night after his conversation with Rothman, "and I guess he will get so much as he wants by Rothman. Such a face I never seen it before, like Haman. If Milton should get fresh with him, mommer, he would get it aSchlag, I bet yer."
"Ain't you ashamed to talk that way?" Mrs. Zwiebel protested.
"It'll do the boy good, mommer," Mr. Zwiebel replied. "That boy is a regular loafer. It's eleven o'clock already and he ain't home yet. What that lowlife does when he stays out till all hours of the night I don't know. One thing is sure, he ain't doing no good. I hate to think where that boy will end up, mommer."
He shook his head and heavily ascended the stairs to bed, while Mrs. Zwiebel settled herself down with the evening paper to await Milton's return.
She had a weary vigil ahead of her, for Milton had at last found serious employment. Only that evening he had been engaged by Professor Felix Lusthaus as a double-bass player in Lusthaus's grand orchestra of forty pieces. This organization had been hired to render the dance music for the fifteenth annual ball of Harmony Lodge, 142, I.O.M.A., and the chairman of the entertainment committee had been influenced in his selection by the preponderating number of the orchestra's members over other competing bands.
Now, to the inexperienced ear twenty-five players will emit nearly as much noise as forty, and in view of this circumstance Professor Lusthaus was accustomed to hire twenty-five bona-fide members of the musical union, while the remaining fifteen pieces were what are technically known as sleepers. That is to say, Professor Lusthaus provided them with instruments and they were directed to go through the motions without making any sound.
Milton, for instance, was instructed how to manipulate the fingerboard of his ponderous instrument, but he was enjoined to draw his bow across the metal base of the music-stand and to avoid the strings upon peril of his job. During the opening two-step Milton's behaviour was exemplary. He watched the antics of the othercontra bassoand duplicated them so faithfully as to call for a commendatory nod from the Professor at the conclusion of the number.
His undoing began with the second dance, which was a waltz. Ascontra bassoperformer he stood with his fellow-artist at the rear of the platform facing the dancing floor, and no sooner had Professor Lusthaus's baton directed the first few measures than Milton's imitation grew spiritless. He had espied a little girl in white with eyes that flashed her enjoyment of the dreamy rhythm. Her cheeks glowed and her lips were parted, while her tiny gloved hand rested like a flower on the shoulder of her partner. They waltzed half-time, as the vernacular has it, and to Milton it seemed like the apotheosis of the dance. He gazed wide-eyed at the fascinating scene and was only brought to himself when the drummer poked him in the ribs with the butt end of the drumstick. For the remainder of the waltz he performed discreetly on the music-stand and his fingers chased themselves up and down the strings with lifelike rapidity.
"Hey, youse," Professor Lusthaus hissed after he had laid down his baton, "what yer trying to do? Queer the whole thing? Hey?"
"I thought I—now—seen a friend of mine," Milton said lamely.
"Oh, yer did, did yer?" Professor Lusthaus retorted. "Well, when you play with this here orchestra you want to remember you ain't got a friend in the world, see?"
Milton nodded.
"And, furthermore," the Professor concluded, "make some more breaks like that and see what'll happen you."
Waltzes and two-steps succeeded each other with monotonous regularity until the grand march for supper was announced. For three years Ferdy Rothman had been chairman of the entertainment and floor committee of Harmony Lodge I.O.M.A.'s annual ball, and he was a virtuoso in the intricate art of arranging a grand march to supper. His aids were six in number, and as Ferdy marched up the ballroom floor they were standing with their backs to the music platform ten paces apart. When Ferdy arrived at the foot of the platform he faced about and split the line of marching couples. The ladies wheeled sharply to the right and the gentlemen to the left, and thereafter began a series of evolutions which, in the mere witnessing, would have given a blacksnake lumbago.
Again Milton became entranced and his fingers remained motionless on the strings, while, instead of sawing away on the music-stand, his right arm hung by his side. Once more the drummer missed a beat and struck him in the ribs, and Milton, looking up, caught sight of the glaring, demoniacal Lusthaus.
The composition was one of Professor Lusthaus's own and had been especially devised for grand marches to supper. In rhythm and melody it was exceedingly conventional, not to say reminiscent, and when Milton seized his bow with the energy of despair and drew it sharply across the strings of thecontra bassothere was introduced a melodic and harmonic element so totally at variance with the character of the composition as to outrage the ears of even Ferdy Rothman. For one fatal moment he turned his head, as did his six aids, and at once the grand march to supper became a hopeless tangle. Simultaneously Milton saw that in five minutes he would be propelled violently to the street at the head of a flying wedge, and he sawed away with a grim smile on his face. Groans like the ultimate sighs of a dying elephant came from underneath his bow, while occasionally he surprised himself with a weird harmonic. At length Professor Lusthaus could stand it no longer. He threw his baton at Milton and followed it up with his violin case, at which Milton deemed it time to retreat. He grabbed his hat and overcoat and dashed wildly through the ranks of the thirty-nine performers toward the front of the platform. Thence he leaped to the ballroom floor, and two minutes later he was safely on the sidewalk with nothing to hinder his exit save a glancing kick from Ferdy Rothman.
It was precisely eleven o'clock, the very shank of the evening, and Milton fairly shuddered at the idea of going home, but what was he to do? His credit at all of the pool parlours had been strained to the utmost and he was absolutely penniless. For two minutes he surveyed the empty street and, with a stretch and a yawn, he started off home.
Ten minutes later Mrs. Zwiebel recognized with a leaping heart his footsteps on the areaway. She ran to the door and opened it.
"Loafer!" she cried. "Where was you?"
"Aw, what's the matter now?" Milton asked as he kissed her perfunctorily. "It's only just eleven o'clock."
"Sure, I know," Mrs. Zwiebel said. "What you come home so early for?"
Again Milton yawned and stretched.
"I was to a racket what the I.O.M.A.'s run off," he said.
He rubbed the dust from his trouser leg where Ferdy Rothman's kick had soiled it.
"Things was getting pretty slow," he concluded, "so I put on my hat and come home."
Breakfast at the Zwiebels' was a solemn feast. Mr. Zwiebel usually drank his coffee in silence, or in as much silence as was compatible with an operation which, with Mr. Zwiebel, involved screening the coffee through his moustache. It emerged all dripping from the coffee, and Mr. Zwiebel was accustomed to cleansing it with his lower lip and polishing it off with his table napkin. Eggs and toast followed, and, unless Mrs. Zwiebel was especially vigilant, her husband went downtown with fragments of the yolks clinging to his eyebrows, for Mr. Zwiebel was a hearty eater and no great stickler for table manners.
To Milton, whose table manners were both easy and correct, the primitive methods of his father were irritating.
"Get a sponge!" he exclaimed on the morning after his orchestral experience, as Mr. Zwiebel absorbed his coffee in long, gurgling inhalations.
"Yes, Milton," Mr. Zwiebel commented, replacing his cup in the saucer, "maybe I ain't such a fine gentleman what you are, but I ain't no loafer, neither, y'understand. When I was your age I didn't sit down and eat my breakfast at nine o'clock. I didn't have it so easy."
"Aw, what yer kicking about?" Milton replied. "You don't let me do nothing down at the store, anyway. All I got to do is sit around. Why don't you send me out on the road and give me a show?"
"A show I would give you," Zwiebel cried. "You mean a picnic, not a show. No, Milton, I got some pretty good customers already, but I wouldn't take no such liberties with 'em as sending out a lowlife like you to sell 'em goods."
"All right," Milton said, and relapsed into a sulky silence.
"Lookyhere, Milton," Zwiebel commenced. "If I thought you was really willing to work, y'understand, I would get you a good job. But with a feller what's all the time fooling away his time, what's the use?"
"Maybe the boy would behave himself this time, popper," Mrs. Zwiebel interceded. "Maybe he would attend to business this time, popper. Ain't it?"
"Business!" Mr. Zwiebel exclaimed. "Business is something what the boy ain't got in him at all. Honest, mommer, I got to sit down sometimes and ask myself what did I done that I should have such a boy. He wouldn't work; he wouldn't do nothing. Just a common, low-life bum, what you see hanging around street corners. If I was a young feller like that, Milton, I would be ashamed to show myself."
"Aw, cut it out!" Milton replied.
"Yes, mommer, if I would get that boy a good job, y'understand," Mr. Zwiebel went on, "he would turn right around and do something, y'understand, what would make me like I could never show myself again in the place where he worked."
"Aw, what are you beefing about now?" Milton broke in. "You never got me a decent job yet. All the places where I worked was piker concerns. Why don't you get me a real job where I could sell some goods?"
"Talk is cheap, Milton," said Mr. Zwiebel. "But if I thought you meant it what you said I would take up an offer what I got it yesterday from Levy Rothman, of Levy Rothman & Co. He wants a young feller what he could bring up in the business, mommer, and make it a salesman out of him. But what's the use?"
"Maybe if you would take Milton down there and let Mr. Rothman see him," Mrs. Zwiebel suggested, "maybe the boy would like the place."
"No, sir," Mr. Zwiebel declared, "I wouldn't do it. I positively wouldn't do nothing of the kind."
He glanced anxiously at his son out of the corner of his eye, but Milton gave no sign.
"Why should I do it?" he went on. "Levy Rothman is a good customer of mine and he wants to pay a young feller fifteen dollars a week to start. Naturally, he expects he should get a hard-working feller for the money."
He felt sure that the fifteen dollars a week would provoke some show of interest, and he was not mistaken.
"Well, I can work as hard as the next one," Milton cried. "Why don't you take me down there and give me a show to get the job?"
Mr. Zwiebel looked at his wife with an elaborate assumption of doubtfulness.
"What could I say to a young feller like that, mommer?" he said. "Mind you, I want to help him out. I want to make a man of him, mommer, but all the time I know how it would turn out."
"How could you talk that way, popper?" Mrs. Zwiebel pleaded. "The boy says he would do his best. Let him have a chance, popper."
"All right," he said heartily; "for your sake, mommer, I will do it. Milton,lieben, put on your coat and hat and we will go right down to Rothman's place."
When Mr. Zwiebel and Milton entered the sample-room of Levy Rothman & Co., three quarters of an hour later, Mr. Rothman was scanning the Arrival of Buyers column in the morning paper.
"Ah, Mr. Rothman," Zwiebel cried, "ain't it a fine weather?"
"I bet yer it's a fine weather," Rothman agreed, "for cancellations. We ain't never had such a warm November in years ago already."
"This is my boy Milton, Mr. Rothman, what I was talking to you about," Zwiebel continued.
"Yes?" Mr. Rothman said. "All right. Let him take down his coat and he'll find a feather duster in the corner by them misses' reefers. I never see nothing like the way the dust gets in here."
Mr. Zwiebel fairly beamed. This was a splendid beginning.
"Go ahead, Milton," he said; "take down your coat and get to work."
But Milton showed no undue haste.
"Lookyhere, pop," he said. "I thought I was coming down here to sell goods."
"Sell goods!" Rothman exclaimed. "Why, you was never in the cloak and suit business before. Ain't it?"
"Sure, I know," Milton replied, "but I can sell goods all right."
"Not here, you couldn't," Rothman said. "Here, before a feller sells goods, he's got to learn the line, y'understand, and there ain't no better way to learn the line, y'understand, than by dusting it off."
Milton put his hat on and jammed it down with both hands.
"Then that settles it," he declared.
"What settles it?" Rothman and Zwiebel asked with one voice; but before Milton could answer the sample-room door opened and a young woman entered. From out the coils of her blue-black hair an indelible lead pencil projected at a jaunty angle.
"Mr. Rothman," she said, "Oppenheimer ain't credited us with that piece of red velour we returned him on the twentieth, and he's charged us up twice with the same item."
"That's a fine crook for you," Rothman cried. "Write him he should positively rectify all mistakes before we would send him a check. That feller's got a nerve like a horse, Mr. Zwiebel. He wants me I should pay him net thirty days, and he never sends us a single statement correct. Anything else, Miss Levy?"
"That's all, Mr. Rothman," she replied as she turned away.
Milton watched her as she closed the door behind her, and then he threw down his hat and peeled off his coat.
"Gimme the feather duster," he said.
For two hours Milton wielded the feather broom, then Mr. Rothman went out to lunch, and as a reflex Milton sank down in the nearest chair. He opened the morning paper and buried himself in the past performances.
"Milton," a voice cried sharply, "ain't you got something to do?"
He looked up and descried Miss Levy herself standing over him.
"Naw," he said, "I finished the dusting."
Miss Levy took the paper gently but firmly from his hands.
"You come with me," she said.
He followed her to the office, where the monthly statements were ready for mailing.
"Put the statements in those envelopes," she said, "and seal them up."
Milton sat down meekly on a high stool and piled up the envelopes in front of him.
"Ain't you got any sponge for to wet these envelopes on?" he asked.
Miss Levy favoured him with a cutting glance.
"Ain't you delicate!" she said. "Use your tongue."
For five minutes Milton folded and licked and then he hazarded a conversational remark:
"You like to dance pretty well, don't you?" he said.
"When I've got business to attend to," Miss Levy replied frigidly, "I don't like anything."
"But I mean I seen you at the I.O.M.A.'s racket last night," Milton continued, "and you seemed to be having a pretty good time."
Miss Levy suppressed a yawn.
"Don't mention it," she said; "I feel like a rag to-day. I didn't get home till four o'clock."
This was something like friendly discourse, and Milton slackened up on his work.
"Who was that feller with the curly hair you was dancing with?" he began, when Miss Levy looked up and noted the cessation of his labour.
"Never you mind who he was, Milton," she answered. "You finish licking those envelopes."
At this juncture they heard the sample-room door open and a heavy footstep sound on its carpeted floor.
"Wait here," she hissed. "It's a customer, and everybody's out to lunch. What's your other name, Milton?"
"Milton Zwiebel," he replied.
Hastily she adjusted her pompadour and tripped off to the sample-room.
"Ain't none of them actors around here to-day, Miss Levy?" a bass voice asked.
"They're all out to lunch," Miss Levy explained.
"Where's Pasinsky?" the visitor asked.
"Mr. Pasinsky's in Boston this week, Mr. Feigenbaum," she replied.
Pasinsky was Rothman's senior drummer and was generally acknowledged a crackerjack.
"That's too bad," Feigenbaum replied. "Ain't Rothman coming back soon?"
"Not for half an hour," Miss Levy answered.
"Well, I ain't got so long to wait," Feigenbaum commented.
Suddenly Miss Levy brightened up.
"Mr. Zwiebel is in," she announced. "Maybe he would do."
"Mr. Zwiebel?" Feigenbaum repeated. "All right,Zwiebel oder Knoblauch, it don't make no difference to me. I want to look at some of them misses' reefers."
"Mis-ter Zwiebel," Miss Levy called, and in response Milton entered.
"This is one of our customers, Mr. Zwiebel," she said, "by the name Mr. Henry Feigenbaum."
"How are you, Mr. Feigenbaum?" Milton said with perfect self-possession. "What can I do for you to-day?"
He dug out one of Charles Zwiebel's Havana seconds from his waistcoat-pocket and handed it to Feigenbaum.
"It looks pretty rough," he said, "but you'll find it all O.K., clear Havana, wrapper, binder, and filler."
"Much obliged," Feigenbaum said. "I want to look at some of them misses' reefers."
Miss Levy winked one eye with electrical rapidity and gracefully placed her hand on the proper rack, whereat Milton strode over and seized the garment.
"Try it on me," Miss Levy said, extending her arm. "It's just my size."
"You couldn't wear no misses' reefer," Feigenbaum said ungallantly. "You ain't so young no longer."
Milton scowled, but Miss Levy passed it off pleasantly.
"You wouldn't want to pay for all the garments in misses' sizes that fit me, Mr. Feigenbaum," she retorted as she struggled into the coat. "My sister bought one just like this up on Thirty-fourth Street, and maybe they didn't charge her anything, neither. Why, Mr. Feigenbaum, she had to pay twenty-two fifty for the precisely same garment, and I could have got her the same thing here for ten dollars, only Mr. Rothman wouldn't positively sell any goods at retail even to his work-people."
Mr. Feigenbaum examined the garment closely while Miss Levy postured in front of him.
"And maybe you think the design and workmanship was better?" she went on. "Why, Mr. Feigenbaum, my sister had to sew on every one of the buttons, and the side seams came unripped the first week she wore it. You could take this garment and stretch it as hard as you could with both hands, and nothing would tear."
Milton nodded approvingly, and then Miss Levy peeled off the coat and handed it to Feigenbaum.
"Look at it yourself," she said; "it's a first-class garment."
She nudged Milton.
"Dummy!" she hissed, "say something."
"Sammet Brothers sell the same garment for twelve-fifty," Milton hazarded. Sammet Brothers were customers of the elder Zwiebel, and Milton happened to remember the name.
Feigenbaum looked up and frowned.
"With me I ain't stuck on a feller what knocks a competitor's line," he said. "Sell your goods on their merits, young feller, and your customers would never kick. This garment looks pretty good to me already, Mr. Zwiebel, so if you got an order blank I'll give it you the particulars."