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"And I bet the whole shooting-match don't fetch five hundred dollars at the receiver's sale," Feinstein said. "Why, I'd give that much for it myself," Abe cried. Feinstein puffed away at his cigar for a minute. "Do you honestly mean you'd like to buy them fixtures?" he said at last. "Sure I'd like to buy them," Abe replied. "When is the receiver's sale going to be?"
"Sure he has," Feinstein replied nonchalantly, scratching a parlor match on the veneered shelf under the cashier's window. The first attempt missed fire, and again he drew a match across the lower part of the partition, leaving a great scar on its polished surface. "Ain't you afraid you spoil them fixtures?" Abe asked.
I only wanted to buy 'em because I thought that they would bring us some of Rifkin's old customers, Mawruss, and I was right." "You're always right, Abe," Morris retorted. "Maybe you was right when you said Feinstein made them marks, Abe, and maybe you wasn't. Feinstein ain't the only one what scratches matches and smokes seegars, Abe. You smoke, too, Abe." "All right, Mawruss," Abe said.
"Well, who bought it them fixtures at the receiver's sale?" "I got to look it up," Feinstein said. "Hold the wire for a minute." A moment later he returned to the 'phone. "Hallo, Mr. Perlmutter," he said. "They sold for three hundred dollars to a dealer by the name Isaac Flachsman." "Say, looky here, Abe," Morris cried one rainy March morning, "we got to get some more insurance."
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