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ELKAN LUBLINER, AMERICAN
ELKAN LUBLINER,
AMERICAN
BY MONTAGUE GLASS
AUTHOR OF
"Potash & Perlmutter," "Abe & Mawruss,"
"Object: Matrimony," etc.
[Illustration: Frucus Quam Folia]
GARDEN CITY NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1912
_Copyright, 1911, 1912, by_
THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY
_Copyright, 1912, by_
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO.
_All rights reserved, including that of
translation into foreign languages,
including the Scandinavian_
CONTENTS
PAGE
Noblesse Oblige 3
Appenweier's Account 33
A Match for Elkan Lubliner 81
Highgrade Lines 147
One of Esau's Fables 196
A Tale of Two Jacobean Chairs 250
Sweet and Sour 288
ELKAN LUBLINER, AMERICAN
ELKAN LUBLINER
CHAPTER ONE
NOBLESSE OBLIGE
POLATKIN & SCHEIKOWITZ CONSERVE THE HONOUR OF THEIR FAMILIES
"Nu, Philip," cried Marcus Polatkin to his partner, Philip Scheikowitz,
as they sat in the showroom of their place of business one June morning,
"even if the letter does got bad news in it you shouldn't take on so
hard. When a feller is making good over here and the _Leute im Russland_
hears about it, understand me, they are all the time sending him bad
news. I got in Minsk a cousin by the name Pincus Lubliner, understand
me, which every time he writes me, y'understand, a relation dies on him
and he wants me I should help pay funeral expenses. You might think I
was a Free Burial Society, the way that feller acts."
"Sure, I know," Philip replied as he folded the letter away; "but this
here is something else again. Mind you, with his own landlord he is
sitting playing cards, Marcus, and comes a pistol through the window
and the landlord drops dead."
"What have you got to do with the landlord?" Polatkin retorted. "If it
was your brother-in-law was killed that's a difference matter entirely;
but when a feller is a landlord _im Russland_, understand me, the least
he could expect is that he gets killed once in a while."
"I ain't saying nothing about the landlord," Philip protested, "but my
brother-in-law writes they are afraid for their lives there and I should
send 'em quick the passage money for him and his boy Yosel to come to
America."
Polatkin rose to his feet and glared angrily at his partner.
"Do you mean to told me you are going to send that loafer money he
should come over here and bum round our shop yet?"
"What do you mean bum round our shop?" Philip demanded. "In the
first place, Polatkin, I ain't said I am going to send him money,
y'understand; and, in the second place, if I want to send the feller
money to come over here, understand me, that's my business. Furthermore,
when you are coming to call my brother-in-law a loafer and a bum,
Polatkin, you don't know what you are talking about. His _Grossvater_,
_olav hasholem_, was the great Harkavy Rav, Jochannon Borrochson."
"I heard that same tale before," Polatkin interrupted. "A feller is a
_Schlemiel_ and a lowlife which he couldn't support his wife and
children, understand me, and it always turns out his grandfather was a
big rabbi in the old country. The way it is with me, Scheikowitz, just
so soon as I am hearing a feller's grandfather was a big rabbi in the
old country, Scheikowitz, I wouldn't got nothing more to do with him. If
he works for you in your place, understand me, then he fools away your
time telling the operators what a big rabbi his grandfather was; and if
he's a customer, Scheikowitz, and you write him ten days after the
account is overdue he should pay you what he owes you, instead he sends
you a check, understand me, he comes down to the store and tells you
what a big rabbi he's got it for a grandfather. _Gott sei Dank_ I ain't
got no _Rabonim_ in my family."
"Sure, I know," Philip cried, "your father would be glad supposing he
could sign his name even."
Polatkin shrugged his shoulders.
"It would _oser_ worry me if my whole family couldn't read or write. So
long as I can sign my name and the money is in the bank to make the
check good from five to ten thousand dollars, y'understand, what do I
care if my grandfather would be deef, dumb and blind, Scheikowitz?
Furthermore, Scheikowitz, believe me I would sooner got one good live
business man for a partner, Scheikowitz, than a million dead rabbis for
a grandfather, and don't you forget it. So if you are going to spend
the whole morning making a _Geschreierei_ over that letter, Scheikowitz,
we may as well close up the store _und fertig_."
With this ultimatum Marcus Polatkin walked rapidly away toward the
cutting room, while Philip Scheikowitz sought the foreman of their
manufacturing department and borrowed a copy of a morning paper. It was
printed in the vernacular of the lower East Side, and Philip bore it to
his desk, where for more than half an hour he alternately consulted the
column of steamboat advertising and made figures on the back of an
envelope. These represented the cost of a journey for two persons from
Minsk to New York, based on Philip's hazy recollection of his own
emigration, fifteen years before, combined with his experience as
travelling salesman in the Southern States for a popular-price line of
pants.
At length he concluded his calculations and with a heavy sigh he put on
his hat just as his partner returned from the cutting room.
"Nu!" Polatkin cried. "Where are you going now?"
"I am going for a half an hour somewheres," Philip replied.
"What for?" Polatkin demanded.
"What for is my business," Philip answered.
"Your business?" Polatkin exclaimed. "At nine o'clock in the morning
one partner puts on his hat and starts to go out, _verstehst du_, and
when the other partner asks him where he is going it's his business,
_sagt er_! What do you come down here at all for, Scheikowitz?"
"I am coming down here because I got such a partner, Polatkin, which if
I was to miss one day even I wouldn't know where I stand at all,"
Scheikowitz retorted. "Furthermore, you shouldn't worry yourself,
Polatkin; for my own sake I would come back just so soon as I could."
Despite the offensive repartee that accompanied Philip's departure,
however, he returned to find Polatkin entirely restored to good humour
by a thousand-dollar order that had arrived in the ten-o'clock mail; and
as Philip himself felt the glow of conscious virtue attendant upon a
good deed economically performed, he immediately fell into friendly
conversation with his partner.
"Well, Marcus," he said, "I sent 'em the passage tickets, and if you
ain't agreeable that Borrochson comes to work here I could easy find him
a job somewheres else."
"If we got an opening here, Philip, what is it skin off my face if the
feller comes to work here," Polatkin answered, "so long as he gets the
same pay like somebody else?"
"What could I do, Marcus?" Philip rejoined, as he took off his hat and
coat preparatory to plunging into the assortment of a pile of samples.
"My own flesh and blood I must got to look out for, ain't it? And if my
sister Leah, _olav hasholem_, would be alive to-day I would of got 'em
all over here long since ago already. Ain't I am right?"
Polatkin shrugged. "In family matters one partner couldn't advise the
other at all," he said.
"Sure, I know," Philip concluded, "but when a feller has got such a
partner which he is a smart, up-to-date feller and means good by his
partner, understand me, then I got a right to take an advice from him
about family matters, ain't it?"
And with these honeyed words the subject of the Borrochson family's
assisted emigration was dismissed until the arrival of another letter
from Minsk some four weeks later.
"Well, Marcus," Philip cried after he had read it, "he'll be here
Saturday."
"Who'll be here Saturday?" Polatkin asked.
"Borrochson," Philip replied; "and the boy comes with him."
Polatkin raised his eyebrows.
"I'll tell you the honest truth, Philip," he said--"I'm surprised to
hear it."
"What d'ye mean you're surprised to hear it?" Philip asked. "Ain't I am
sending him the passage tickets?"
"Sure, I know you are sending him the tickets," Polatkin continued, "but
everybody says the same, Philip, and that's why I am telling you,
Philip, I'm surprised to hear he is coming; because from what everybody
is telling me it's a miracle the feller ain't sold the tickets and
gambled away the money."
"What are you talking nonsense, selling the tickets!" Philip cried
indignantly. "The feller is a decent, respectable feller even if he
would be a poor man."
"He ain't so poor," Polatkin retorted. "A thief need never got to be
poor, Scheikowitz."
"A thief!" Philip exclaimed.
"That's what I said," Polatkin went on, "and a smart thief too,
Scheikowitz. Gifkin says he could steal the buttons from a policeman's
pants and pass 'em off for real money, understand me, and they couldn't
catch him anyhow."
"Gifkin?" Philip replied.
"Meyer Gifkin which he is working for us now two years, Scheikowitz, and
a decent, respectable feller," Polatkin said relentlessly. "If Gifkin
tells you something you could rely on it, Scheikowitz, and he is telling
me he lives in Minsk one house by the other with this feller Borrochson,
and such a lowlife gambler bum as this here feller Borrochson is you
wouldn't believe at all."
"Meyer Gifkin says that?" Philip gasped.
"So sure as he is working here as assistant cutter," Polatkin continued.
"And if you think that this here feller Borrochson comes to work in our
place, Scheikowitz, you've got another think coming, and that's all I
got to say."
But Philip had not waited to hear the conclusion of his partner's
ultimatum, and by the time Polatkin had finished Philip was at the
threshold of the cutting room.
"Gifkin!" he bellowed. "I want to ask you something a question."
The assistant cutter laid down his shears.
"What could I do for you, Mr. Scheikowitz?" he said respectfully.
"You could put on your hat and coat and get out of here before I kick
you out," Philip replied without disclosing the nature of his abandoned
question. "And, furthermore, if my brother-in-law Borrochson is such a
lowlife bum which you say he is, when he is coming here Saturday he
would pretty near kill you, because, Gifkin, a lowlife gambler and a
thief could easily be a murderer too. _Aber_ if he ain't a such thief
and gambler which you say he is, then I would make you arrested."
"Me arrested?" Gifkin cried. "What for?"
"Because for calling some one a thief which he ain't one you could sit
in prison," Scheikowitz concluded. "So you should get right out of here
before I am sending for a policeman."
"But, Mr. Scheikowitz," Gifkin protested, "who did I told it your
brother-in-law is a thief and a gambler?"
"You know very well who you told it," Scheikowitz retorted. "You told it
my partner, Gifkin. That's who you told it."
"But I says to him he shouldn't tell nobody," Gifkin continued. "Is it
my fault your partner is such a _Klatsch_? And, anyhow, Mr. Scheikowitz,
supposing I did say your brother-in-law is a gambler and a thief, I know
what I'm talking about; and, furthermore, if I got to work in a place
where I couldn't open my mouth at all, Mr. Scheikowitz, I don't want to
work there, and that's all there is to it."
He assumed his hat and coat in so dignified a manner that for the moment
Scheikowitz felt as though he were losing an old and valued employee,
and this impression was subsequently heightened by Polatkin's behaviour
when he heard of Gifkin's departure. Indeed a casual observer might have
supposed that Polatkin's wife, mother, and ten children had all perished
in a common disaster and that the messenger had been indiscreet in
breaking the news, for during a period of almost half an hour Polatkin
rocked and swayed in his chair and beat his forehead with his clenched
fist.
"You are shedding my blood," he moaned to Scheikowitz.
"What the devil you are talking nonsense!" Scheikowitz declared. "The
way you are acting you would think we are paying the feller five
thousand dollars a year instead of fifteen dollars a week."
"It ain't what a feller makes from you, Scheikowitz; it's what you make
from him what counts," he wailed. "Gifkin was really worth to us a year
five thousand dollars."
"Five thousand buttons!" Scheikowitz cried. "You are making a big fuss
about nothing at all."
But when the next day Polatkin and Scheikowitz heard that Gifkin had
found employment with their closest competitors Philip began to regret
the haste with which he had discharged his assistant cutter, and he bore
his partner's upbraidings in chastened silence. Thus by Friday afternoon
Polatkin had exhausted his indignation.
"Well, Philip," he said as closing-time approached, "it ain't no use
crying over sour milk. What time does the boat arrive?"
"To-night," Philip replied, "and the passengers comes off the island
to-morrow. Why did you ask?"
"Because," Marcus said with the suspicion of a blush, "Saturday ain't
such a busy day and I was thinking I would go over with you. Might I
could help you out."
* * * * *
Philip's trip with his partner to Ellis Island the following morning
tried his temper to the point where he could barely refrain from
inquiring if the expected immigrant were his relation or Polatkin's,
for during the entire journey Marcus busied himself making plans for the
Borrochsons' future.
"The first thing you got to look out for with a greenhorn, Philip," he
said, "is that you learn 'em good the English language. If a feller
couldn't talk he couldn't do nothing, understand me, so with the young
feller especially you shouldn't give him no encouragement to keep on
talking _Manerloschen_." Philip nodded politely.
"Look at me for instance," Marcus continued; "six months after I landed,
Philip, I am speaking English already just so good as a doctor or a
lawyer. And how did I done it? To night school I am going only that they
should learn me to write, _verstehst du_, _aber_ right at the start old
man Feinrubin takes me in hand and he talks to me only in English. And
if I am understanding him, _schon gut_; and if I don't understand him
then he gives me a _potch_ on the side of the head, Philip, which the
next time he says it I could understand him good. And that's the way you
should do with the young feller, Philip. I bet yer he would a damsight
sooner learn English as get a _Schlag_ every ten minutes."
Again Philip nodded, and by the time they had arrived at the enclosure
for the relations of immigrants he had become so accustomed to the hum
of Marcus' conversation that he refrained from uttering even a
perfunctory "Uh-huh." They sat on a hard bench for more than half an
hour, while the attendants bawled the common surnames of every country
from Ireland to Asiatic Turkey, and at length the name Borrochson
brought Philip to his feet. He rushed to the gateway, followed by
Marcus, just as a stunted lad of fifteen emerged, staggering under the
burden of a huge cloth-covered bundle.
"Uncle Philip," the lad cried, dropping the bundle. Then clutching
Marcus round the neck he showered kisses on his cheeks until Philip
dragged him away.
"I am your uncle," Philip said in _Juedisch Deutsch_. "Where is your
father?"
Without answering the question Yosel Borrochson took a stranglehold of
Philip and subjected him to a second and more violent osculation. It was
some minutes before Philip could disengage himself from his nephew's
embrace and then he led him none too gently to a seat.
"Never mind the kissing," he said; "where's your father?"
"He is not here," Yosel Borrochson replied with a vivid blush.
"I see he is not here," Philip rejoined. "Where is he?"
"He is in Minsk," said young Borrochson.
"In Minsk?" Philip and Marcus cried with one voice, and then Marcus sat
down on the bench and rocked to and fro in an ecstasy of mirth.
"In Minsk!" he gasped hysterically, and slapped his thighs by way of
giving expression to his emotions. "Did you ever hear the like?"
"Polatkin, do me the favour," Philip begged, "and don't make a damn fool
of yourself."
"What did I told you?" Polatkin retorted, but Philip turned to his
nephew.
"What did your father do with the ticket and the money I sent him?" he
asked.
"He sold the ticket and he used all the money for the wedding," the boy
replied.
"The wedding?" Philip exclaimed. "What wedding?"
"The wedding with the widow," said the boy.
"The widow?" Philip and Marcus shouted in unison. "What widow?"
"The landlord's widow," the boy answered shyly.
And then as there seemed nothing else to do he buried his face in his
hands and wept aloud.
"Nu, Philip," Marcus said, sitting down beside young Borrochson, "could
the boy help it if his father is a _Ganef_?"
Philip made no reply, and presently Marcus stooped and picked up the
bundle.
"Come," he said gently, "let's go up to the store."
The journey uptown was not without its unpleasant features, for the size
of the bundle not only barred them from both subway and elevated, but
provoked a Broadway car conductor to exhibit what Marcus considered to
be so biased and illiberal an attitude toward unrestricted immigration
that he barely avoided a cerebral hemorrhage in resenting it. They
finally prevailed on the driver of a belt-line car to accept them as
passengers, and nearly half an hour elapsed before they arrived at
Desbrosses Street; but after a dozen conductors in turn had declined to
honour their transfer tickets they made the rest of their journey on
foot.
Philip and young Borrochson carried the offending bundle, for Marcus
flatly declined to assist them. Indeed with every block his enthusiasm
waned, so that when they at length reached Wooster Street his feelings
toward his partner's nephew had undergone a complete change.
"Don't fetch that thing in here," he said as Philip and young Borrochson
entered the showroom with the bundle; "leave it in the shop. You got no
business to bring the young feller up here in the first place."
"What do you mean bring him up here?" Philip cried. "If you wouldn't
butt in at all I intended to take him to my sister's a cousin on Pitt
Street."
Marcus threw his hat on a sample table and sat down heavily.
"That's all the gratitude I am getting!" he declared with bitter
emphasis. "Right in the busy season I dropped everything to help you
out, and you turn on me like this."
He rose to his feet suddenly, and seizing the bundle with both hands he
flung it violently through the doorway.
"Take him to Pitt Street," he said. "Take him to the devil for all I
care. I am through with him."
But Philip conducted his nephew no farther than round the corner on
Canal Street, and when an hour later Yosel Borrochson returned with his
uncle his top-boots had been discarded forever, while his wrinkled,
semi-military garb had been exchanged for a neat suit of Oxford gray.
Moreover, both he and Philip had consumed a hearty meal of coffee and
rolls and were accordingly prepared to take a more cheerful outlook upon
life, especially Philip.
"_Bleib du hier_," he said as he led young Borrochson to a chair in the
cutting room. "_Ich Komm bald zurueck._"
Then mindful of his partner's advice he broke into English. "Shtay
here," he repeated in loud, staccato accents. "I would be right back.
_Verstehst du?_"
"Yess-ss," Yosel replied, uttering his first word of English.
With a delighted grin Philip walked to the showroom, where Polatkin sat
wiping away the crumbs of a belated luncheon of two dozen zwieback and a
can of coffee.
"_Nu_," he said conciliatingly, "what is it now?"
"Marcus," Philip began with a nod of his head in the direction of the
cutting room, "I want to show you something a picture."
"A picture!" Polatkin repeated as he rose to his feet. "What do you mean
a picture?"
"Come," Philip said; "I'll show you."
He led the way to the cutting room, where Yosel sat awaiting his uncle's
return.
"What do you think of him now?" Philip demanded. "Ain't he a
good-looking young feller?"
Marcus shrugged in a non-committal manner.
"Look what a bright eye he got it," Philip insisted. "You could tell by
looking at him only that he comes from a good family."
"He looks a boy like any other boy," said Marcus.
"But even if no one would told you, Marcus, you could see from his
forehead yet--and the big head he's got it--you could see that
somewheres is _Rabonim_ in the family."
"Yow!" Marcus exclaimed. "You could just so much see from his head that
his grandfather is a rabbi as you could see from his hands that his
father is a crook." He turned impatiently away. "So instead you should
be talking a lot of nonsense, Philip, you should set the boy to work
sweeping the floor," he continued. "Also for a beginning we would start
him in at three dollars a week, and if the boy gets worth it pretty soon
we could give him four."
In teaching his nephew the English language Philip Scheikowitz adopted
no particular system of pedagogy, but he combined the methods of
Ollendorf, Chardenal, Ahn and Polatkin so successfully that in a few
days Joseph possessed a fairly extensive vocabulary. To be sure, every
other word was acquired at the cost of a clump over the side of the
head, but beyond a slight ringing of the left ear that persisted for
nearly six months the Polatkin method of instruction vindicated itself,
and by the end of the year Joseph's speech differed in no way from that
of his employers.
"Ain't it something which you really could say is wonderful the way that
boy gets along?" Philip declared to his partner, as the first
anniversary of Joseph's landing approached. "Honestly, Marcus, that boy
talks English like he would be born here already."
"Sure, I know," Marcus agreed. "He's got altogether too much to say for
himself. Only this morning he tells me he wants a raise to six dollars a
week."
"Could you blame him?" Philip asked mildly. "He's doing good work here,
Marcus."
"Yow! he's doing good work!" Marcus exclaimed. "He's fresh like
anything, Scheikowitz. If you give him the least little encouragement,
Scheikowitz, he would stand there and talk to you all day yet."
"Not to me he don't," Philip retorted. "Lots of times I am asking him
questions about the folks in the old country and always he tells me:
'With greenhorns like them I don't bother myself at all.' Calls his
father a greenhorn yet!"
Marcus flapped his right hand in a gesture of impatience.
"He could call his father a whole lot worse," he said. "Why, that
_Ganef_ ain't even wrote you at all since the boy comes over here. Not
only he's a crook, Scheikowitz, but he's got a heart like a brick."
Philip shrugged his shoulders.
"What difference does it make if he is a crook?" he rejoined. "The boy's
all right anyway. Yes, Marcus, the boy is something which you could
really say is a jewel."
"_Geh weg!_" Marcus cried disgustedly--"a jewel!"
"That's what I said," Philip continued--"a jewel. Tell me, Marcus, how
many boys would you find it which they are getting from three to five
dollars a week and in one year saves up a hundred dollars, y'understand,
and comes to me only this morning and says to me I should take the money
for what it costs to keep him while he is learning the language, and for
buying him his clothes when he first comes here. Supposing his father is
a crook, Marcus, am I right or wrong?"
"Talk is cheap, Scheikowitz," Marcus retorted. "He only says he would
pay you the money, Scheikowitz, ain't it?"
Philip dug down into his pocket and produced a roll of ragged one and
two dollar bills, which he flung angrily on to a sample table.
"Count 'em," he said.
Marcus shrugged again.
"What is it my business?" he said. "And anyhow, Scheikowitz, I must say
I'm surprised at you. A poor boy saves up a hundred dollars out of the
little we are paying him here, and actually you are taking the money
from him. Couldn't you afford it to spend on the boy a hundred dollars?"
"Sure I could," Philip replied as he pocketed the bills. "Sure I could
and I'm going to too. I'm going to take this here money and put it in
the bank for the boy, with a hundred dollars to boot, Polatkin, and when
the boy gets to be twenty-one he would anyhow got in savings bank a
couple hundred dollars."
Polatkin nodded shamefacedly.
"Furthermore, Polatkin," Philip continued, "if you got such a regard for
the boy which you say you got it, understand me, I would like to make
you a proposition. Ever since Gifkin leaves us, y'understand, we got in
our cutting room one _Schlemiel_ after another. Ain't it? Only yesterday
we got to fire that young feller we took on last week, understand me,
and if we get somebody else in his place to-day, Polatkin, the chances
is we would get rid of him to-morrow, and so it goes."
Again Polatkin nodded.
"So, therefore, what is the use talking, Polatkin?" Philip concluded.
"Let us take Joe Borrochson and learn him he should be a cutter, and in
six months' time, Polatkin, I bet yer he would be just so good a cutter
as anybody."
At this juncture Polatkin raised his hand with the palm outward.
"Stop right there, Scheikowitz," he said. "You are making a fool of
yourself, Scheikowitz, because, Scheikowitz, admitting for the sake of
no arguments about it that the boy is a good boy, understand me, after
all he's only a boy, ain't it, and if you are coming to make a
sixteen-year-old boy an assistant cutter, y'understand, the least that
we could expect is that our customers fires half our goods back at us."
"But----" Scheikowitz began.
"But, nothing, Scheikowitz," Polatkin interrupted. "This morning I seen
it Meyer Gifkin on Canal Street and he ain't working for them suckers no
more; and I says to him is he willing to come back here at the same
wages, and he says yes, providing you would see that this here feller
Borrochson wouldn't pretty near kill him."
"What do you mean pretty near kill him?" Scheikowitz cried. "Do you mean
to say he is afraid of a boy like Joe Borrochson?"
"Not Joe Borrochson," Polatkin replied. "He is all the time thinking
that your brother-in-law Borrochson comes over here with his boy and is
working in our place yet, and when I told him that that crook didn't
come over at all Meyer says that's the first he hears about it or he
would have asked for his job back long since already. So he says he
would come in here to see us this afternoon."
"But----" Scheikowitz began again.
"Furthermore," Polatkin continued hastily, "if I would got a nephew in
my place, Scheikowitz, I would a damsight sooner he stays working on the
stock till he knows enough to sell goods on the road as that he learns
to be a cutter. Ain't it?"
Scheikowitz sighed heavily by way of surrender.
"All right, Polatkin," he said; "if you're so dead set on taking this
here feller Gifkin back go ahead. But one thing I must got to tell you:
If you are taking a feller back which you fired once, understand me, he
acts so independent you couldn't do nothing with him at all."
"Leave that to me," Polatkin said, as he started for the cutting room,
and when Scheikowitz followed him he found that Gifkin had already
arrived.
"_Wie gehts_, Mister Scheikowitz?" Gifkin cried, and Philip received the
salutation with a distant nod.
"I hope you don't hold no hard feelings for me," Gifkin began.
"Me hold hard feelings for you?" Scheikowitz exclaimed. "I guess you
forget yourself, Gifkin. A boss don't hold no hard feelings for a feller
which is working in the place, Gifkin; otherwise the feller gets fired
and stays fired, Gifkin."
At this juncture Polatkin in the role of peacemaker created a diversion.
"Joe," he called to young Borrochson, who was passing the cutting-room
door, "come in here a minute."
He turned to Gifkin as Joe entered.
"I guess you seen this young feller before?" he said.
Gifkin looked hard at Joe for a minute.
"I think I seen him before somewheres," he replied.
"Sure you seen him before," Polatkin rejoined. "His name is Borrochson."
"Borrochson!" Gifkin cried, and Joe, whose colour had heightened at the
close scrutiny to which he had been subjected, began to grow pale.
"Sure, Yosel Borrochson, the son of your old neighbour," Polatkin
explained, but Gifkin shook his head slowly.
"That ain't Yosel Borrochson," he declared, and then it was that
Polatkin and Scheikowitz first noticed Joe's embarrassment. Indeed even
as they gazed at him his features worked convulsively once or twice and
he dropped unconscious to the floor.
In the scene of excitement that ensued Gifkin's avowed discovery was
temporarily forgotten, but when Joe was again restored to consciousness
Polatkin drew Gifkin aside and requested an explanation.
"What do you mean the boy ain't Yosel Borrochson?" he demanded.
"I mean the boy ain't Yosel Borrochson," Gifkin replied deliberately. "I
know this here boy, Mr. Polatkin, and, furthermore, Borrochson's boy is
got one bum eye, which he gets hit with a stone in it when he was only
four years old already. Don't I know it, Mr. Polatkin, when with my own
eyes I seen this here boy throw the stone yet?"
"Well, then, who is this boy?" Marcus Polatkin insisted.
"He's a boy by the name Lubliner," Gifkin replied, "which his father was
Pincus Lubliner, also a crook, Mr. Polatkin, which he would steal
anything from a toothpick to an oitermobile, understand me."
"Pincus Lubliner!" Polatkin repeated hoarsely.
"That's who I said," Gifkin continued, rushing headlong to his
destruction. "Pincus Lubliner, which honestly, Mr. Polatkin, there's
nothing that feller wouldn't do--a regular _Rosher_ if ever there was
one."
For one brief moment Polatkin's eyes flashed angrily, and then with a
resounding smack his open hand struck Gifkin's cheek.
"Liar!" he shouted. "What do you mean by it?"
Scheikowitz, who had been tenderly bathing Joe Borrochson's head with
water, rushed forward at the sound of the blow.
"Marcus," he cried, "for Heaven's sake, what are you doing? You
shouldn't kill the feller just because he makes a mistake and thinks the
boy ain't Joe Borrochson."
"He makes too many mistakes," Polatkin roared. "Calls Pincus Lubliner a
crook and a murderer yet, which his mother was my own father's a sister.
Did you ever hear the like?"
He made a threatening gesture toward Gifkin, who cowered in a chair.
"Say, lookyhere, Marcus," Scheikowitz asked, "what has Pincus Lubliner
got to do with this?"
"He's got a whole lot to do with it," Marcus replied, and then his eyes
rested on Joe Borrochson, who had again lapsed into unconsciousness.
"Oo-ee!" Marcus cried. "The poor boy is dead."
He swept Philip aside and ran to the water-cooler, whence he returned
with the drip-bucket brimming over. This he emptied on Joe Borrochson's
recumbent form, and after a quarter of an hour the recovery was
permanent. In the meantime Philip had interviewed Meyer Gifkin to such
good purpose that when he entered the firm's office with Meyer Gifkin at
his heels he was fairly spluttering with rage.
"Thief!" he yelled. "Out of here before I make you arrested."
"Who the devil you think you are talking to?" Marcus demanded.
"I am talking to Joseph Borrochson," Scheikowitz replied. "That's who
I'm talking to."
"Well, there ain't no such person here," Polatkin retorted. "There's
here only a young fellow by the name Elkan Lubliner, which he is my own
father's sister a grandson, and he ain't no more a thief as you are."
"Ain't he?" Philip retorted. "Well, all I can say is he is a thief and
his whole family is thieves, the one worser as the other."
Marcus glowered at his partner.
"You should be careful what you are speaking about," he said. "Maybe you
ain't aware that this here boy's grandfather on his father's side was
_Reb_ Mosha, the big _Lubliner Rav_, a _Chosid_ and a _Tzadek_ if ever
there was one."
"What difference does that make?" Philip demanded. "He is stealing my
brother-in-law's passage ticket anyhow."
"I didn't steal it," the former Joseph Borrochson cried. "My father paid
him good money for it, because Borrochson says he wanted it to marry the
widow with; and you also I am paying a hundred dollars."
"Yow! Your father paid him good money for it!" Philip jeered. "A _Ganef_
like your father is stealing the money, too, I bet yer."
"_Oser a Stueck_," Polatkin declared. "I am sending him the money myself
to help bury his aunt, Mrs. Lebowitz."
"You sent him the money?" Philip cried. "And your own partner you didn't
tell nothing about it at all!"
"What is it your business supposing I am sending money to the old
country?" Marcus retorted. "Do you ask me an advice when you are sending
away money to the old country?"
"But the feller didn't bury his aunt at all," Philip said.
"Yes, he did too," the former Joseph Borrochson protested. "Instead of a
hundred dollars the funeral only costs fifty. Anybody could make an
overestimate. Ain't it?"
Marcus nodded.
"The boy is right, Philip," he said, "and anyhow what does this loafer
come butting in here for?"
As he spoke he indicated Meyer Gifkin with a jerk of the chin.
"He ain't butting in here," Philip declared; "he comes in here because I
told him to. I want you should make an end of this nonsense, Polatkin,
and hire a decent assistant cutter. Gifkin is willing to come back for
twenty dollars a week."
"He is, is he?" Marcus cried. "Well, if he was willing to come back for
twenty dollars a week why didn't he come back before? Now it's too
late; I got other plans. Besides, twenty dollars is too much."
"You know very well why I ain't come back before, Mr. Polatkin," Gifkin
protested. "I was afraid for my life from that murderer Borrochson."
Philip scowled suddenly.
"My partner is right, Gifkin," he said. "Twenty dollars is too much."
"No, it ain't," Gifkin declared. "If I would be still working for you,
Mr. Scheikowitz, I would be getting more as twenty dollars by now. And
was it my fault you are firing me? By rights I should have sued you in
the courts yet."
"What d'ye mean sue us in the courts?" Philip exclaimed. He was growing
increasingly angry, but Gifkin heeded no warning.
"Because you are firing me just for saying a crook is a crook," Gifkin
replied, "and here lately you found out for yourself this here
Borrochson is nothing but a _Schwindler_--a _Ganef_."
"What are you talking about--a _Schwindler_?" Philip cried, now
thoroughly aroused. "Ain't you heard the boy says Borrochson is marrying
the landlord's widow? Could a man get married on wind, Gifkin?"
"Yow! he married the landlord's widow!" Gifkin said. "I bet yer that
crook gambles away the money; and, anyhow, could you believe anything
this here boy tells you, Mr. Scheikowitz?"
The question fell on deaf ears, however, for at the repetition of the
word crook Philip flung open the office door.
"Out of here," he roared, "before I kick you out."
Simultaneously Marcus grabbed the luckless Gifkin by the collar, and
just what occurred between the office and the stairs could be deduced
from the manner in which Marcus limped back to the office.
"_Gott sei Dank_ we are rid of the fellow," he said as he came in.
* * * * *
Although Philip Scheikowitz arrived at his place of business at
half-past seven the following morning he found that Marcus and Elkan
Lubliner had preceded him, for when he entered the showroom Marcus
approached with a broad grin on his face and pointed to the cutting
room, where stood Elkan Lubliner. In the boy's right hand was clutched a
pair of cutter's shears, and guided by chalked lines he was laboriously
slicing up a roll of sample paper.
"Ain't he a picture?" Marcus exclaimed.
"A picture!" Philip repeated. "What d'ye mean a picture?"
"Why, the way he stands there with them shears, Philip," Marcus replied.
"He's really what you could call a born cutter if ever there was one."
"A cutter!" Philip cried.
"Sure," Marcus went on. "It's never too soon for a young feller to
learn all sides of his trade, Philip. He's been long enough on the
stock. Now he should learn to be a cutter, and I bet yer in six months'
time yet he would be just so good a cutter as anybody."
Philip was too dazed to make any comment before Marcus obtained a fresh
start.
"A smart boy like him, Philip, learns awful quick," he said. "Ain't it
funny how blood shows up? Now you take a boy like him which he comes
from decent, respectable family, Philip, and he's got real gumption. I
think I told you his grandfather on his father's side was a big rabbi,
the _Lubliner Rav_."
Philip nodded.
"And even if I didn't told you," Marcus went on, "you could tell it from
his face."
Again Philip nodded.
"And another thing I want to talk to you about," Marcus said, hastening
after him: "the hundred dollars the boy gives you you should keep,
Philip. And if you are spending more than that on the boy I would make
it good."
Philip dug down absently into his trousers pocket and brought forth the
roll of dirty bills.
"Take it," he said, throwing it toward his partner. "I don't want it."
"What d'ye mean you don't want it?" Marcus cried.
"I mean I ain't got no hard feelings against the boy," Philip replied.
"I am thinking it over all night, and I come to the conclusion so long
as I started in being the boy's uncle I would continue that way. So you
should put the money in the savings bank like I says yesterday."
"But----" Marcus protested.
"But nothing," Philip interrupted. "Do what I am telling you."
Marcus blinked hard and cleared his throat with a great, rasping noise.
"After all," he said huskily, "it don't make no difference how many
crooks _oder Ganevim_ is in a feller's family, Philip, so long as he's
got a good, straight business man for a partner."
CHAPTER TWO
APPENWEIER'S ACCOUNT
HOW ELKAN LUBLINER GRADUATED INTO SALESMANSHIP
"When I hire a salesman, Mr. Klugfels," said Marcus Polatkin, senior
partner of Polatkin & Scheikowitz, "I hire him because he's a salesman,
not because he's a nephew."
"But it don't do any harm for a salesman to have an uncle whose concern
would buy in one season from you already ten thousand dollars goods, Mr.
Polatkin," Klugfels insisted. "Furthermore, Harry is a bright, smart
boy; and you can take it from me, Mr. Polatkin, not alone he would get
my trade, but us buyers is got a whole lot of influence one with the
other, understand me; so, if there's any other concern you haven't on
your books at present, you could rely on me I should do my best for
Harry and you."
Thus spoke Mr. Felix Klugfels, buyer for Appenweier & Murray's
Thirty-second Street store, on the first Monday of January; and in
consequence on the second Monday of January Harry Flaxberg came to work
as city salesman for Polatkin & Scheikowitz. He also maintained the role
of party of the second part in a contract drawn by Henry D. Feldman,
whose skill in such matters is too well known for comment here.
Sufficient to say it fixed Harry Flaxberg's compensation at thirty
dollars a week and moderate commissions. At Polatkin's request, however,
the document was so worded that it excluded Flaxberg from selling any of
the concerns already on Polatkin & Scheikowitz's books; for not only did
he doubt Flaxberg's ability as a salesman, but he was quite conscious of
the circumstance that, save for the acquisition of Appenweier & Murray's
account, there was no need of their hiring a city salesman at all, since
the scope of their business operations required only one salesman--to
wit, as the lawyers say, Marcus Polatkin himself. On the other hand,
Klugfels had insisted upon the safeguarding of his nephew's interests,
so that the latter was reasonably certain of a year's steady employment.
Hence, when, on the first Monday of February, Appenweier & Murray
dispensed with the services of Mr. Klugfels before he had had the
opportunity of bestowing even one order on his nephew as a mark of his
favour, the business premises of Polatkin & Scheikowitz became forthwith
a house of mourning. From the stricken principals down to and including
the shipping clerk nothing else was spoken of or thought about for a
period of more than two weeks. Neither was it a source of much
consolation to Marcus Polatkin when he heard that Klugfels had been
supplanted by Max Lapin, a third cousin of Leon Sammet of the firm of
Sammet Brothers.
"Ain't it terrible the way people is related nowadays?" he said to
Scheikowitz, who had just read aloud the news of Max Lapin's hiring in
the columns of the _Daily Cloak and Suit Record_.
"Honestly, Scheikowitz, if a feller ain't got a lot of retailers _oder_
buyers for distance relations, understand me, he might just so well go
out of business and be done with it!"
Scheikowitz threw down the paper impatiently.
"That's where you are making a big mistake, Polatkin," he said. "A
feller which he expects to do business with relations is just so good as
looking for trouble. You could never depend on relations that they are
going to keep on buying goods from you, Polatkin. The least little thing
happens between relations, understand me, and they are getting right
away enemies for life; while, if it was just between friends, Polatkin,
one friend makes for the other a blue eye, understand me, and in two
weeks' time they are just so good friends as ever. So, even if
Appenweier & Murray wouldn't fire him, y'understand, Klugfels would have
dumped this young feller on us anyway."
As he spoke he looked through the office door toward the showroom,
where Harry Flaxberg sat with his feet cocked up on a sample table
midway in the perusal of the sporting page.
"Flaxberg," Scheikowitz cried, "what are we showing here
anyway--garments _oder_ shoes? You are ruining our sample tables the way
you are acting!"
Flaxberg replaced his feet on the floor and put down his paper.
"It's time some one ruined them tables on you, Mr. Scheikowitz," he
said. "With the junk fixtures you got it here I'm ashamed to bring a
customer into the place at all."
"That's all right," Scheikowitz retorted; "for all the customers you are
bringing in here, Flaxberg, we needn't got no fixtures at all. Come
inside the office--my partner wants to speak to you a few words
something."
Flaxberg rose leisurely to his feet and, carefully shaking each leg in
turn to restore the unwrinkled perfection of his trousers, walked toward
the office.
"Tell me, Flaxberg," Polatkin cried as he entered, "what are you going
to do about this here account of Appenweier & Murray's?"
"What am I going to do about it?" Flaxberg repeated. "Why, what could I
do about it? Every salesman is liable to lose one account, Mr.
Polatkin."
"Sure, I know," Polatkin answered; "but most every other salesman is got
some other accounts to fall back on. Whereas if a salesman is just got
one account, Flaxberg, and he loses it, understand me, then he ain't a
salesman no longer, Flaxberg. Right away he becomes only a loafer,
Flaxberg, and the best thing he could do, understand me, is to go and
find a job somewheres else."
"Not when he's got a contract, Mr. Polatkin," Flaxberg retorted
promptly. "And specially a contract which the boss fixes up
himself--ain't it?"
Scheikowitz nodded and scowled savagely at his partner.
"Listen here to me, Flaxberg," Polatkin cried. "Do you mean to told me
that, even if a salesman would got ever so much a crazy contract,
understand me, it allows the salesman he should sit all the time doing
nothing in the showroom without we got a right to fire him?"
"Well," Flaxberg replied calmly, "it gives him the privilege to go out
to lunch once in a while."
He pulled down his waistcoat with exaggerated care and turned on his
heel.
"So I would be back in an hour," he concluded; "and if any customers
come in and ask for me tell 'em to take a seat till I am coming back."
The two partners watched him until he put on his hat and coat in the
rear of the showroom and then Polatkin rose to his feet.
"Flaxberg," he cried, "wait a minute!"
Flaxberg returned to the office and nonchalantly lit a cigarette.
"Listen here to me, Flaxberg," Polatkin began. "Take from us a hundred
and fifty dollars and quit!"
Flaxberg continued the operation of lighting his cigarette and blew a
great cloud of smoke before replying.
"What for a piker do you think I am anyhow?" he asked.
"What d'ye mean--piker?" Polatkin said. "A hundred and fifty ain't to be
sneezed at, Flaxberg."
"Ain't it?" Flaxberg retorted. "Well, with me, I got a more delicate
nose as most people, Mr. Polatkin. I sneeze at everything under five
hundred dollars--and that's all there is to it."
Once more he turned on his heel and walked out of the office; but this
time his progress toward the stairs was more deliberate, for, despite
his defiant attitude, Flaxberg's finances were at low ebb owing to a
marked reversal of form exhibited the previous day in the third race at
New Orleans. Moreover, he felt confident that a judicious investment of
a hundred and fifty dollars would net him that very afternoon at least
five hundred dollars, if any reliance were to be placed on the selection
of Merlando, the eminent sporting writer of the _Morning Wireless_.
Consequently he afforded every opportunity for Marcus to call him back,
and he even paused at the factory door and applied a lighted match to
his already burning cigarette. The expected summons failed, however,
and instead he was nearly precipitated to the foot of the stairs by no
less a person than Elkan Lubliner.
"Excuse me, Mr. Flaxberg," Elkan said. "I ain't seen you at all."
Flaxberg turned suddenly, but at the sight of Elkan his anger evaporated
as he recalled a piece of gossip retailed by Sam Markulies, the shipping
clerk, to the effect that, despite his eighteen years, Elkan had at
least two savings-bank accounts and kept in his pocket a bundle of bills
as large as a roll of piece goods.
"That's all right," Flaxberg cried with a forced grin. "I ain't
surprised you are pretty near blinded when you are coming into the
daylight out of the cutting room. It's dark in there like a tomb."
"I bet yer," Elkan said fervently.
"You should get into the air more often," Flaxberg went on. "A feller
could get all sorts of things the matter with him staying in a hole like
that."
"_Gott sei dank_ I got, anyhow, my health," Elkan commented.
"Sure, I know," Flaxberg said as they reached the street; "but you must
got to take care of it too. A feller which he don't get no exercise
should ought to eat well, Lubliner. For instance, I bet yer you are
taking every day your lunch in a bakery--ain't it?"
Elkan nodded.
"Well, there you are!" Flaxberg cried triumphantly. "A feller works all
the time in a dark hole like that cutting room, and comes lunchtime he
_fresses_ a bunch of _Kuchen_ and a cup of coffee, _verstehst du_--and
is it any wonder you are looking sick?"
"I feel all right," Elkan said.
"I know you feel all right," Flaxberg continued, "but you look something
terrible, Lubliner. Just for to-day, Lubliner, take my advice and try
Wasserbauer's regular dinner."
Elkan laughed aloud.
"Wasserbauer's!" he exclaimed. "Why, what do you think I am, Mr.
Flaxberg? If I would be a salesman like you, Mr. Flaxberg, I would say,
'Yes; eat once in a while at Wasserbauer's'; _aber_ for an assistant
cutter, Mr. Flaxberg, Wasserbauer's is just so high like the Waldorfer."
"That's all right," Flaxberg retorted airily. "No one asks you you
should pay for it. Come and have a decent meal with me."
For a brief interval Elkan hesitated, but at length he surrendered, and
five minutes later he found himself seated opposite Harry Flaxberg in
the rear of Wasserbauer's cafe.
"Yes, Mr. Flaxberg," he said as he commenced the fourth of a series of
dill pickles, "compared with a salesman, a cutter is a dawg's
life--ain't it?"
"Well," Flaxberg commented, "he is and he isn't. There's no reason why a
cutter shouldn't enjoy life too, Lubliner. A cutter could make money on
the side just so good as a salesman. I am acquainted already with a
pants cutter by the name Schmul Kleidermann which, one afternoon last
week, he pulls down two hundred and fifty dollars yet."
"Pulls down two hundred and fifty dollars!" Elkan exclaimed. "From where
he pulls it down, Mr. Flaxberg?"
"Not from the pants business _oser_," Flaxberg replied. "The feller
reads the papers, Lubliner, and that's how he makes his money."
"You mean he is speculating in these here stocks from stock exchanges?"
Elkan asked.
"Not stocks," Flaxberg replied in shocked accents. "From _spieling_ the
stock markets a feller could lose his shirt yet. Never play the stock
markets, Lubliner. That's something which you could really say a feller
ruins himself for life with."
Elkan nodded.
"Even _im Russland_ it's the same," he said.