"Must I take it up the option?" he said calmly. "Couldn't I let you keep it the four hundred dollars if I wanted to?"

Rashkin looked at Ferdy Rothschild.

"That's a fine murderer for you. What?" he exclaimed.

"Him, I ain't surprised about," Ferdy Rothschild replied, "but when a feller should do his own wife's brother out of a commission of four hundred and sixty-five dollars, Rashkin, what a heart he must have it.

Like a piece of steel."

"Don't talk that way, Ferdy," Morris commented, without emotion. "You make me feel bad. I got lots of consideration for you, Ferdy, after the way you treated me already. Yes, Ferdy, I think a whole lot of you, Ferdy. You could come to me with your tongue hanging out from hunger yet, and I wouldn't lift a little finger."

Ferdy turned and appealed to B. Rashkin.

"Ain't them fine words to hear from my own brother-in-law?" he said.

"n.o.body compels you to stay here and listen to 'em, Rothschild," Abe interrupted. "And, anyhow, Rothschild, you could make it more money if instead you stayed here you would go downtown to Henry D. Feldman's office and sue this here Rashkin in the courts for your commission. I was telling Feldman all about it this morning, and he says you got it a good case."

"Rothschild," Rashkin cried pleadingly, "where are you going?"

"You shouldn't talk to me," Rothschild answered. "Potash is right. I brought this here Marks to you and he was ready and willing to purchase at your terms, and so, therefore, you owe me a commission of four hundred and sixty-five dollars."

The next moment he banged the door behind him and five minutes later he was followed by B. Rashkin, who had filled that short s.p.a.ce of time with an exhaustive and profane denunciation of Potash & Perlmutter, individually and as copartners.

Five days afterward Morris examined the list of real-estate conveyances in the morning paper, after the fashion of the reformed race-track gambler who occasionally consults the past performances of the day's entries.

He handed the paper to Abe and pointed his finger to the following item:

264th St. 2044 East 37.6 x 100.10; Baruch Rashkin to the Royal Piccadilly Realty Co. (mtg $33,000), $100.

"That's only a fake," Abe said. "I seen in the paper yesterday that Rashkin incorporated the Royal Piccadilly Realty Company with his wife, Goldie Rashkin, as president; and I guess he done it because he got scared that Rothschild would get a judgment against him. And so he transfers the house to the corporation."

"But if he does that, Abe," Morris cried gleefully, "Ferdy Rothschild would never collect on that judgment, because that house is all the property Rashkin's got."

"I hope you don't feel bad about it, Mawruss," Abe said.

"I bet yer I feel terrible, Abe," Morris said ironically. "But why did Rashkin call it the Royal Piccadilly Realty Company, Abe?"

"For the sake of old times yet," Abe answered. "I hear it from Sol Klinger that before Rashkin busted up in the waist business he used to make up a garment called the Royal Piccadilly."

"Is that so?" Morris commented. "I never heard he busted up in the waist business, Abe. Why couldn't he make a go of it, Abe?"

"Well, Mawruss, it was the same trouble with him like with some other people, I know," Abe replied significantly. "He was a good manufacturer but a poor salesman; and you know as well as I do, Mawruss, any fool could make up an article, Mawruss, but it takes a feller with judgment to sell it."

CHAPTER XVII

"Did the sponger send up them doctors yet?" said Morris with a far-away look in his bloodshot eyes, as he entered his place of business at half past seven one morning in March.

"Doctors?" Abe repeated. "What are you talking about--doctors?"

Morris snapped his fingers impatiently.

"Doctors! Hear me talk!" he cried. "I meant kerseys."

"Listen here, Mawruss," Abe suggested. "What's the use you monkeying with business to-day? Why don't you go home?"

"Me, I don't take things so particular, Abe," Morris replied. "Time enough when I got to go home, then I will go home."

"You could do what you please, Mawruss," Abe declared. "We ain't so busy now that you couldn't be spared, y'understand. With spring weather like we got it now, Mawruss, we could better sell arctic overshoes and raincoats as try to get rid of our line already. I tell you the truth, Mawruss, I ain't seen business so _schlecht_ since way before the Spanish War already."

"We could always find _something_ to do, Abe," said Morris. "Why don't you tell Miss Cohen to get out them statements which you was talking about?"

"That's a good idee, Mawruss," Abe agreed. "Half the time we don't know where we are at at all. Big concerns get out what they call a balancing sheet every day yet, and we are lucky if we do it oncet a year already.

How long do you think it would take her to finish 'em up, Mawruss?"

The far-away look returned to Morris' eyes as he replied. "I am waiting for a telephone every minute, Abe," he said.

Abe stared indignantly at his partner, then he took a cigar out of his waistcoat pocket and handed it to Morris.

"Go and sit down and smoke this, Mawruss," he said. "Leon Sammet gives it to me in the subway this morning, and if it's anything like them souvenirs which he hands it out to his customers, it'll make you forget your troubles, Mawruss. The last time I smoked one, I couldn't remember nothing for a week."

Morris carefully cut off the end of Abe's gift with a penknife, but when he struck a match the telephone bell rang sharply. Immediately he threw the cigar and the lighted match to the floor and dashed wildly to the firm's office.

"Do you got to burn the place up yet?" Abe cried, and after he had extinguished the match with his foot, he followed his partner to the office in time to view Morris' coat tails disappearing into the elevator. For two minutes he stood still and shook his head slowly.

"Miss Cohen," he said at length, "get out them statements which I told it you yesterday, and so soon you got the drawing account finished, let me have it. I don't think Mr. Perlmutter will be back to-day, so you would have lots of time to do it in."

It was almost two o'clock before Miss Cohen handed Abe the statement of the firm's drawing account, and Abe thrust it into his breast pocket.

"I'm going out for a bite, Miss Cohen," he said. "If anybody wants me, I am over at Hammersmith's and you could send Jake across for me."

He sighed heavily as he raised his umbrella and plunged out into a heavy March downpour. It had been raining steadily for about a week to the complete discouragement of garment buyers, and Hammersmith's rear cafe sheltered a proportionately gloomy a.s.semblage of cloak and suit manufacturers. Abe glanced around him when he entered and selected a table at which sat Sol Klinger, who was scowling at a portion of Salisbury steak.

"Hallo, Sol," Abe cried. "What's the trouble. Ain't the oitermobile running again?"

"Do me the favor, Abe," Sol replied, "and cut out them so called alleged jokes."

He turned toward a waiter who was dusting off the tablecloth in front of Abe.

"Max," he said, stabbing at the steak with a fork held at arm's length and leaning back in his chair as though to avoid contagion. "What d'ye call this here mess anyway?"

The waiter examined the dish critically and nodded his head.

"Sally's-bury steak, Mr. Klinger," he murmured. "Very nice to-day."

"Is that so?" Sol Klinger rejoined. "Well, lookyhere Max, if I would got it a dawg which I wanted to get rid of bad, y'understand, I would feed him that mess. But me, I ain't ready to die just yet awhile, y'understand, even though business _is_ rotten, so you could take that thing back to the cook and bring me a slice of roast beef; and if you think I got all day to sit here, Max, and fool away my time----"