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"You are throwing away good money after bad, Mawruss," Abe said, renewing the subject after an interval of comparative calm, "because, so sure as you are standing there, we would never get our two hundred and fifty out of that feller Gurin." "What has Mrs. Gladstein's present got to do with Gurin?" Morris asked.
"I am trying to drive into this, Abe," Morris replied: "B. Gurin is a good-looking, up-to-date feller, but he's in wrong with that store of his in Mount Vernon. In the first place, the neighbourhood ain't right, y'understand, and in the second place Gurin don't attend to business like he should; because he ain't married and he ain't got no responsibilities.
"What d'ye mean, forget?" B. Gurin ran his hands once more through his pompadour and nodded slowly. "That's what I said," he repeated "to forget." "Well, I hope you ain't forgetting you owe us now two hundred and fifty dollars since the first of the month yet," Morris commented in dry, matter-of-fact tones. B. Gurin waved his hand airily. "I could forget that easy, Mr.
"Girls which they got D to F fathers don't got to cook pertaters," Morris commented shortly. B. Gurin shrugged. "For that matter, Mr. Perlmutter," he said, "I don't take it so particular about my food neither." "Say, lookyhere, Gurin," Morris exclaimed. "What is the trouble with you anyhow?
The latter exhibited the square knobbiness that only fashion artists can impart to the footgear of their models, while the broad laces that held them by the insecure hold of two eyelets were knotted in a bow that might have been appended to the collar of Mr. Paderewski himself. "Ain't this Mr. Gurin?" Sol Klinger asked, and the creature of fashion nodded. "You're a friend of the Kahlo, ain't it?"
For five minutes he sat still, endeavouring to trace the intricacies of a discussion that had put him so decisively in the wrong, and he was still pondering the matter when the elevator door opened and B. Gurin alighted. "How do you do, Mr. Perlmutter?" Gurin cried. Morris grunted inarticulately and made no attempt to take his visitor's proffered hand. "Did you got any news for me?" Gurin asked.
B. Gurin exclaimed, and the next moment he clasped Mrs. Gladstein in his arms. "You was asking me the name of Mrs. Gladstein's first husband," said Sol Klinger to Morris Perlmutter, as they descended the stoop together half an hour later. "It was Aaron Lutsky. He died two years after they was married. I knew his family well in the old country her's too, Perlmutter.
He paused at the doorway and lit a cigar. "And one thing I could tell you, Gurin," he concluded. "Either you would send us a check the first thing to-morrow morning, oder we would give your account to our lawyers, and that's all there is to it." He puffed away at his cigar as he trudged down the street, and he had nearly reached the corner when he heard a familiar voice shouting: "Mr. Perlmutter!"
He handed the advertisement to Gurin, who read it over unmoved. "Well, I must tell you the honest truth, Mr. Perlmutter," he said. "I couldn't say I am sorry." And he smiled amiably. As Morris gazed at the fashion-plate features and the fashion-plate apparel of his visitor, he entirely forgot his optimistic scheme of supplanting Asimof with Gurin and he grew suddenly livid with a fierce rage.
Perlmutter, since the day I am leaving Minsk one woman is the same as another to me. I ain't got no use for none of 'em." "Geh weg, Gurin," Morris cried impatiently. "You talk like a fool. Just because one lady goes back on you, understand me, is that a reason you wouldn't got no use for no ladies at all?
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