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They had finished two hot games of pinochle, and sat with their feet on a small amiable oil-stove. Mr. Wrenn laid her hand against his cheek with infinite content. He was outlining the situation at the office. The business had so increased that Mr. Mortimer R. Guilfogle, the manager, had told Rabin, the head traveling-salesman, that he was going to appoint an assistant manager. Should he, Mr.
We paid him that two thousand dollars what he got with Miriam Rabin." Morris looked guilty. "Ain't I told you yet, Abe?" he said. "I thought I told you." "You ain't told me nothing," said Abe. "Why, Alec Goldwasser and Miriam Rabin ain't engaged no longer. The way my Minnie tells me, Rabin says he don't want his daughter should marry a man without a business of his own, so the match is off."
"Forty-eight five-fifty," Harris Rabin replied. "That feller's got a nerve like a horse." "Oh, I don't know," Morris murmured. "Forty-eight five-fifty is a good price for the house, Harris." "Is it?" Harris cried. "Well, maybe you think so, but you ain't such a griterion." Morris was visibly offended at so harsh a rejoinder. "I know I ain't, Harris," he said. "If I was I wouldn't be here, Harris.
"But if the income was only four hundred and fifty dollars a month, and next month you got a daughter what was getting married to Alec Goldwasser, drummer for Klinger & Klein, and you got to give Alec a couple of thousand dollars with her, but you don't have no ready cash, then, Abe, you'd sell them cloaks, and so that's why Harris Rabin wants to sell the house."
He was not madly excited at seeing Rabin; still, the drummer was part of the good old Souvenir Company, the one place in the world on which he could absolutely depend, the one place where they always wanted him. He had been absently staring at the sample-tables, noting new novelties. The office girl, speaking sweetly, but as to an outsider, inquired, "Who did you wish to see, Mr. Wrenn?" "Why! Mr.
Last night when he came around to your place I told him the house ain't no bargain for any one what ain't a real-estater, y'understand, and he gets quite mad about it. Also, I watched him when Ike Magnus tells you he would give forty-eight five for it, and he turned pale. If he " At this juncture the doorbell rang and Morris entered. "No, siree, sir," Harris Rabin bawled.
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