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Updated: September 29, 2025
"And," he concluded, "he's coming to work Monday morning." At the end of three disillusionizing weeks Abe Potash and Morris Perlmutter sat in the show-room of their place of business. Abe's hat was tilted over his eyes and he whistled a tuneless air. Morris was biting his nails. "Well, Mawruss," Abe said at length, "when we're stuck we're stuck; ain't it?
This was very agreeable to Bessie, but Miss Jocund looked like an angry sphinx, and as the defeated nurse appeared she said with suppressed excitement, "Sally, how often must I warn you to keep the boy out of the show-room? Carry him away." The flaxen cherub was born off kicking and howling; Bessie looked as if she were being punished herself, Mrs. Stokes stood confounded, Mrs. Betts turned red.
She sat in an angle, somewhat apart from the others. As he stood by her side, thinking how to refer to the morning in the show-room, she said: "Mr. Fleet, you are not eating anything, and you look as if you had been living on air of late very unlike your appearance when you so efficiently aided me in the rearrangement of the store. I am delighted that you keep up the better order of things."
Thus, when Morris entered the show-room the next morning it became his duty to break the news to his partner, and he approached Abe with a now-for-it air. "Well, Abe," he said, "you was wrong." "Sure, I was, Mawruss," Abe replied amiably. "With you I am always wrong. What's the matter now?" "You was wrong about that feller Rashkin," Morris explained.
Forthwith Abe boarded a car for uptown, and when he returned two hours later he found Goldman discussing ways and means with Morris in the show-room. "Well, Abe," Morris cried, "what for a loft you seen it?" Abe hung up his hat deliberately. "I tell you the truth, Mawruss," he said, turning around, "the loft ain't bad.
Abe rose from his task and made at once for the stairs, with Morris following at his heels. In four strides he had reached the show-room, but no sooner had he crossed the threshold than he started back violently, thereby knocking the breath out of Morris, who was nearly precipitated to the floor. "Morris," he hissed, "who is that there lady?"
There is not the least need to describe him he was a Jew. "Go into the front show-room, and look at the pictures, while I speak to Mr. Pickup," said Dick, familiarly throwing open a door, and pushing me into a kind of gallery beyond.
"We know you already when you didn't have it so much money what you got now." Her companion nodded sadly. "So, Potash," she concluded, "your own wife's people is operators and finishers; what?" Abe looked at Morris, who stood grinning broadly in the show-room doorway. "Give me an introduction once, Abe," Morris said. "He don't have to give us no introduction," the elder female exclaimed.
That's the kind of feller Mawruss is, Sol. I could treat him always like a gentleman, Sol, and if the smallest little thing happens to us, 'sucker' is the least what he calls me." At this juncture the green baize doors leading into the hall burst open and Morris himself leaped into the show-room.
She wandered from office to show-room, from show-room to factory. "What's the trouble?" inquired T. A. Buck, squinting up at her through a cloud of cigar smoke. "Oh, nothing," answered Mrs. McChesney, and stood fingering the piles of glistening satin garments, a queer, faraway look in her eyes. Then she turned and walked listlessly toward the door.
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