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It was the common talk among the "hands" of the factory that his Americanized copies of French models had found special favor with the buyer of a certain large department store and that this alone gave the house a considerable volume of business. Jeff Manheimer, who superintended the work, was a commonplace man, with more method and system than taste or initiative.
I obtained employment in an "inside" place, a factory owned by twin brothers named Manheimer I was in high feather. My sense of advancement and independence reminded me of the days when I had just been graduated from the Talmudic Academy and went on studying as an "independent scholar." I had not, however, begun to work in my new place when a general strike of the trade was declared
One day, at the lunch hour, as I was opening a small bottle of milk, the bottle slipped out of my hand and its contents were spilled over the floor and some silk coats Jeff Manheimer, one of the twins, happened to be near me at the moment, and a disagreeable scene followed. But first a word or two about Jeff Manheimer
As I now looked at him, with my heart full of rancor for Manheimer, I exclaimed to myself, "What a fool!" He appeared to me in a new light, as the willing victim of downright robbery. It seemed obvious that the Manheimers could not do without him, that he was in a position to dictate terms to them, even to make them accept him as a third partner.
I had many occasions to eat in high-class restaurants and I was getting to feel quite at home in them Max's conjecture regarding Chaikin was borne out. The talented designer had given up his job at the Manheimer Brothers' and opened a cloak-and-suit house with a man who had made considerable money as a cloak salesman, and as a landlord for a partner. When Max heard of it he was overjoyed
Loeb made a rough-and-ready speech, the gist of which was a joke on the bottle of milk which I had spilled while in the employ of Manheimer Brothers and which had led to my becoming a manufacturer. His concluding words were: "There's at least one saying that has come true. I mean the saying, 'There's no use crying over spilled milk. Mr.
AN unimportant accident, a mere trifle, suddenly gave a new turn to the trend of events changing the character of my whole life. It was the middle of April. The spring season was over, but Manheimer Brothers, the firm by which I was employed, had received heavy duplicate orders for silk coats, and, considering the time of the year, we were unusually busy.
Some of my shopmates tittered obsequiously, which encouraged Manheimer to further sarcasm. "Why, he doesn't even know how to handle a bottle of milk. Did you ever see such a lobster?" At this there was an explosion of merriment. "A lobster!" one of the tailors repeated, relishingly I could have murdered him as well as Manheimer. My head was swimming.
I took them to the department store to which the Manheimer Brothers catered, but the buyer of the cloak department would not so much as let me untie my bundle. After sweeping me with a glance of cold curiosity, he waved me aside. My Russian name and my appearance were evidently against me. I tried the other department stores with the same result.
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