the like, Sidney? He asks me what it is my business supposing
Falkstatter, Fein & Company owes us a whole lot of money! Ain't that a
fine way to talk, Sidney?"
Sidney's pasty face coloured and he bit his lips nervously.
"Max is right, popper," he said. "You ain't got no call to come down
here and interfere in our affairs. I'll put on my hat and go right home
with you."
It was now Sam's turn to blush, and he did so to the point of growing
purple with rage.
"Don't trouble yourself," he cried; "because I ain't going home!"
"What d'ye mean, y'ain't going home?" Max said threateningly.
"I mean what I say!" Sam declared. "I mean I ain't going home never
again. You are throwing me out of my business, Max, and you would soon
try to throw me out of my home, too, if I couldn't protect myself. But
I ain't so old and I ain't so sick but what I could take care of
myself, Max."
"Why, Doctor Eichendorfer says----" Sidney began.
"Doctor Eichendorfer!" Sam roared. "Who is Doctor Eichendorfer? He is a
doctor, not a lawyer, Max, and maybe he knows about kidneys, Max; but
he don't know nothing about business, Max! And, so help me, Max, I
would give you till Wednesday afternoon three o'clock; if you don't
send me a certified check for five thousand dollars over to Henry
Schrimm's place, I would go right down and see Henry D. Feldman, and I
would bust your business--my business!--open from front to rear, so
that there wouldn't be a penny left for nobody--except Henry D.
Feldman."
Here he drew a deep breath.
"And, furthermore, Max," he concluded, as he made for the door, "don't
try any monkey business with spreading reports I am gone crazy or
anything, because I know that's just what you would do, Max! And if you
would, Max, instead of five thousand dollars I would want ten thousand
dollars. And if I wouldn't get it, Max, Henry D. Feldman would--so what
is the difference?"
He paused with his hand on the elevator bell and faced his sons again.
"Solomon was right, Max," he concluded. "He was an old-timer, Max; but,
just the same, he knew what he was talking about when he said that you
bring up a child in the way he should go and when he gets old he bites
you like a serpent's tooth yet!"
At this juncture the elevator door opened and Sam delivered his
ultimatum.
"But you got a different proposition here, boys," he said; "and before
you get through with me I would show you that oncet in a while a father
could got a serpent's tooth, too--and don't you forget it!"
"Mr. Gembitz," the elevator boy interrupted, "there is here in the
building already twenty tenants; and other people as yourself wants to
ride in the elevator, too, Mr. Gembitz."
Thus admonished, Sam entered the car and a moment later he found
himself on the sidewalk. Instinctively he walked toward the subway
station, although he had intended to return to Henry Schrimm's office;
but, before he again became conscious of his surroundings, he was
seated in a Lenox Avenue express with an early edition of the evening
paper held upside down before him.
"_Nah_, well," he said to himself, "what is the difference? I wouldn't
try to do no more business to-day."
He straightened up the paper and at once commenced to study the
financial page. Unknown to his children, he had long rented a
safe-deposit box, in which reposed ten first-mortgage bonds of a
trunkline railroad, together with a few shares of stock purchased by
him during the Northern Pacific panic. He noted, with a satisfied grin,
that the stock showed a profit of fifty points, while the bonds had
advanced three eighths of a point.
"Three eighths ain't much," he muttered as he sat still while the train
left One Hundred and Sixteenth Street station, "but there is a whole
lot of _rabonim_ which would marry you for less than thirty-seven
dollars and fifty cents."
He threw the paper to the floor as the train stopped at One Hundred and
Twenty-fifth Street and, without a moment's hesitation, ascended to the
street level and walked two blocks north to One Hundred and
Twenty-seventh Street. There he rang the basement bell of an
old-fashioned brown-stone residence and Mrs. Schrimm in person opened
the door. When she observed her visitor she shook her head slowly from
side to side and emitted inarticulate sounds through her nose,
indicative of extreme commiseration.
"Ain't you going to get the devil when Babette sees you!" she said at
last. "Mrs. Krakauer tells her six times over the 'phone already you
just went home."
"Could I help it what that woman tells Babette?" Sam asked. "And,
anyhow, Henrietta, what do I care what Mrs. Krakauer tells Babette or
what Babette tells Mrs. Krakauer? And, furthermore, Henrietta, Babette
could never give me the devil no more!"
"No?" Mrs. Schrimm said as she led the way to the dining-room. "You're
talking awful big, Sam, for a feller which he never calls his soul his
own in his own home yet."
"Them times is past, Henrietta," Sam answered as he sat down and
removed his hat. "To-day things begin differently for me, Henrietta;
because, Henrietta, you and me is old enough to know our own business,
understand me--and if I would say 'black' you wouldn't say 'white.' And
if you would say 'black' I would say 'black'."
Mrs. Schrimm looked hard at Sam and then she sat down on the sofa.
"What d'ye mean, black?" she gasped.
"I'm only talking in a manner of speaking, Henrietta," Sam explained.
"What I mean is this."
He pulled an old envelope out of his pocket and explored his waistcoat
for a stump of lead pencil.
"What I mean is," he continued, wetting the blunt point with his
tongue, "ten bonds from Canadian Western, first mortgage from gold,
_mit_ a _garantirt_ from the Michigan Midland Railroad, ten thousand
dollars, interest at 6 per cent.--is six hundred dollars a year, ain't
it?"
"Ye-ee-s," Mrs. Schrimm said hesitatingly. "_Und?_"
"_Und_," Sam said triumphantly, "fifty shares from Central Pacific at
154 apiece is seventy-seven hundred dollars, with dividends since
thirty years they are paying it at 4 per cent. is two hundred dollars
a year more, ain't it?"
Mrs. Schrimm nodded.
"What has all this got to do with me, Sam?" she asked.
Sam cleared his throat.
"A wife should know how her husband stands," he said huskily. "Ain't it
so, Henrietta, _leben_?"
Mrs. Schrimm nodded again.
"Did you speak to Henry anything, Sam?" she asked.
"I didn't say nothing to Henry yet," Sam replied; "but if he's
satisfied with the business I done for him this morning I would make
him a partnership proposition."
"But, listen here to me, Sam," Mrs. Schrimm protested. "Me I am already
fifty-five years old; and a man like you which you got money,
understand me, if you want to get married you could find plenty girls
forty years old which would only be glad they should marry
you--good-looking girls, too, Sam."
"_Koosh!_" Sam cried, for he had noted a tear steal from the corner of
Mrs. Schrimm's eye. He rose from his chair and seated himself on the
sofa beside her. "You don't know what you are talking about," he said
as he clasped her hand. "Good looks to some people is red cheeks and
black hair, Henrietta; but with me it is different. The best-looking
woman in the whole world to me, Henrietta, is got gray hair, with good
brains underneath--and she is also a little fat, too, understand me;
but the heart is big underneath and the hands is red, but they got red
doing _mitzvahs_ for other people, Henrietta."
He paused and cleared his throat again.
"And so, Henrietta," he concluded, "if you want me to marry a
good-looking girl--this afternoon yet we could go downtown and get the
license."
Mrs. Schrimm sat still for two minutes and then she disengaged her hand
from Sam's eager clasp.
"All I got to do is to put on a clean waist," she said, "and I would
get my hat on in ten minutes."
* * * * *
"The fact of the matter is," Max Gembitz said, two days later, "we
ain't got the ready money."
Sam Gembitz nodded. He sat at a desk in Henry Schrimm's office--a new
desk of the latest Wall Street design; and on the third finger of his
left hand a plain gold band was surmounted by a three-carat diamond
ring, the gift of the bride.
"No?" he said, with a rising inflection.
"And you know as well as I do, popper, we was always a little short
this time of the year in our business!" Max continued.
"Our business?" Sam repeated. "You mean your business, Max."
"What difference does it make?" Max asked.
"It makes a whole lot of difference, Max," Sam declared; "because, if I
would be a partner in your business, Max, I would practically got to be
one of my own competitors."
"One of your own competitors!" Max cried. "What d'ye mean?"
For answer Sam handed his son the following card:
SAMUEL GEMBITZ HENRY SCHRIMM
GEMBITZ & SCHRIMM
CLOAKS & SUITS
--WEST NINETEENTH STREET NEW YORK
Max gazed at the card for five minutes and then he placed it in his
waistcoat-pocket.
"So you are out to do us--what?" Max said bitterly.
"What are you talking about--out to do you?" Sam replied. "How could an
old-timer like me do three up-to-date fellers like you and Sidney and
Lester? I'm a back number, Max. I ain't got gumption enough to make up
a whole lot of garments, all in one style, pastel shades, and sell 'em
all to a concern which is on its last legs, Max. I couldn't play this
here _Baytzimmer_ feller's pool, Max, and I couldn't sit up all hours
of the night eating lobsters and oysters and ham and bacon in the
Harlem Winter Garden, Max."
He paused to indulge in a malicious grin.
"Furthermore, Max," he continued, "how could a poor, sick old man
compete with a lot of healthy young fellers like you boys? I've got
Bright's Disease, Max, and I could drop down in the street any minute.
And if you don't believe me, Max, you should ask Doctor Eichendorfer.
He will tell you the same."
Max made no reply, but took up his hat from the top of Sam's desk.
"Wait a minute, Max," Sam said. "Don't be in such a hurry, Max,
because, after all, you boys is my sons, anyhow; and so I got a
proposition to make to you."
He pointed to a chair and Max sat down.
"First, Max," he went on, "I wouldn't ask you for cash. What I want is
you should give me a note at one year for five thousand dollars,
without interest."
"So far as I could see," Max interrupted, "we wouldn't be in no better
condition to pay you five thousand dollars in one year as we are
to-day."
"I didn't think you would be," Sam said, "but I figured that all out;
and if, before the end of one year, you three boys would turn around
and go to work and get a decent, respectable feller which he would
marry Babette and make a home for her, understand me, I would give you
back your note."
"But how could we do that?" Max exclaimed.
"I leave that to you," Sam replied; "because, anyhow, Max, there's
plenty fellers which is designers _oder_ bookkeepers which would marry
Babette in a minute if they could get a partnership in an old,
established concern like yours."
"But Babette don't want to get married," Max declared.
"Don't she?" Sam retorted. "Well, if a woman stands hours and hours in
front of the glass and rubs her face _mit_ cold cream and _Gott weiss_
what else, Max, if she don't want to get married I'd like to know what
she does want."
Again Max rose to his feet.
"I'll tell the boys what you say," he murmured.
"Sure," Sam said heartily, "and tell 'em also they should drop in oncet
in a while and see mommer and me up in One Hundred and Twenty-seventh
Street."
Max nodded.
"And tell Babette to come, also," Sam added; but Max shook his head.
"I'm afraid she wouldn't do it," he declared. "She says yesterday she
wouldn't speak to you again so long as you live."
Sam emitted a sigh that was a trifle too emphatic in its tremulousness.
"I'm sorry she feels that way, Max," he said; "but it's an old saying
and a true one, Max: you couldn't make no omelets without beating
eggs."
CHAPTER FIVE
MAKING OVER MILTON
"Take it from me, Mr. Zwiebel, that boy would never amount to nothing,"
said Levy Rothman, as they sat in the rear room of Wasserbauer's Cafe
and restaurant.
"You are mistaken, Mr. Rothman," Charles Zwiebel replied; "the boy is
only a little wild, y'understand, and if I could get him to settle down
and learn a business, Mr. Rothman, he would settle down. After all, Mr.
Rothman, he is only a boy, y'understand."
"At twenty-one," Rothman replied, "a boy ain't a boy no longer, Mr.
Zwiebel. Either he is a man or he is a loafer, y'understand."
"The boy ain't no loafer, Mr. Rothman. He's got a good heart, Mr.
Rothman, and he is honest like the day. That boy wouldn't dream of
taking no money from the cash drawer, Mr. Rothman, without he would
tell me all about it afterward. That's the kind of boy he is, Mr.
Rothman; and certainly Mrs. Zwiebel she thinks a whole lot of him, too.
Not that he doesn't think a whole lot of her, Mr. Rothman. Yes, Mr.
Rothman, that boy thinks a whole lot of his mother. If he would stay
out all night he always says to her the next morning, 'Mommer, you
shouldn't worry about me, because I could always take care of myself,'
and I bet yer that boy could take care of himself, too, Mr. Rothman. I
seen that boy sit in a game with such sharks like Moe Rabiner and Marks
Pasinsky, and them fellers couldn't do nothing with him. Yes, Mr.
Rothman, that boy is a natural-born pinochle player."
"Might you think that a recommendation, maybe?" Rothman exclaimed.
"Well, Mr. Rothman, my brother Sol, _selig_, used to say, 'Show me a
good pinochle player and I will show you a natural-born salesman.'"
"Yes, Mr. Zwiebel," Rothman retorted, "and show me a salesman what is a
good pinochle player, Mr. Zwiebel, and I will also show you a feller
what fools away his time and sells the firm's samples. No, Mr. Zwiebel,
if I would take your boy in my place I certainly wouldn't take him
because he is a good pinochle player. Ain't he got no other
recommendation, Mr. Zwiebel?"
"Well, certainly, everybody what that boy worked for, Mr. Rothman,
couldn't say enough about him," Mr. Zwiebel said enigmatically; "but,
anyhow, what's the use talking, Mr. Rothman? I got this proposition to
make you: Take the boy into your place and learn him the business, and
all you would got to pay him is five dollars a week. Myself I will put
ten to it, and you could pay him fifteen, and the boy wouldn't got to
know nothing about it."
"I wouldn't give him five dollars a week or five cents, neither," Mr.
Rothman answered in tones of finality. "Because I don't need nobody in
my place at present, and if I would need somebody I would hire it a
feller what knows the business. I got lots of experience with new
beginners already, Mr. Zwiebel, and I always lost money by 'em."
Mr. Zwiebel received this ultimatum in so crest-fallen a manner that
Rothman's flinty heart was touched.
"Lookyhere, Mr. Zwiebel," he said, "I got a boy, too, only, _Gott sei
dank_, the young feller ain't a loafer, y'understand. He's now in his
third year in law school, and I never had a bit of trouble with that
boy. Because I don't want you to feel bad, Mr. Zwiebel, but if I do
say it myself, that boy is a good boy, y'understand; none better, Mr.
Zwiebel, I don't care where you would go. That boy comes home,
y'understand, every night, y'understand, except the night when he goes
to lodge meeting, and he takes down his books and learns it till his
mommer's got to say to him: 'Ferdy, _lieben_, you would ruin your
eyes.' That boy is only twenty-three, Mr. Zwiebel, and already he is
way up in the I.O.M.A. They give that young feller full charge for
their annual ball two years already, and----"
"Excuse me, Mr. Rothman," Zwiebel broke in. "I got to get back to my
business, and so, therefore, I want to make you a final proposition.
Take the boy into your place and I would give you each week fifteen
dollars you should pay him for his wages."
"I wouldn't positively do nothing of the kind," Rothman cried.
"And"--Mr. Zwiebel said as though he were merely extending his remark
instead of voicing an idea that had just occurred to him--"and I will
invest in your business two thousand dollars which you would only pay
me savings-bank interest."
Rothman's eyes glittered, but he only laughed by way of reply.
"Ain't that a fair proposition?"
"You must think I need money bad in my business," Rothman commented.
"Every man in the cloak and suit business needs money this year,
Rothman," said Zwiebel, who was in the cigar business. His specialty
was the manufacture of cigars for the entertainment of cloak and suit
customers, and his own financial affairs accurately reflected
conditions in the woman's outer garment trade. For instance, when cloak
buyers are anxious to buy goods the frugal manufacturer withholds his
hospitality; but if the demand for cloaks is slack, then M to Z
customers are occasionally regaled with cigars from the "gilt-edged"
box. This season Zwiebel was selling more and better cigars than for
many years past, and he made his deductions accordingly.
"Yes, Mr. Rothman," Zwiebel concluded, "there's plenty cloak and suit
men would be glad to get a young feller like my Milton on such terms
what I offer it."
"Well, why don't you talk to 'em about it?" Rothman replied. "I am
satisfied."
But there was something about Rothman's face that to Zwiebel augured
well for his son's regeneration. Like the advertised loft buildings in
the cloak and suit district, Mr. Rothman's face was of steel
construction throughout, and Zwiebel felt so sure of Rothman's ability
to cope with Milton's shortcomings that he raised the bid to three
thousand dollars. Firmness, however, is a quality that makes for
success in every phase of business, particularly in bargaining; and
when the deal was closed Rothman had hired Milton Zwiebel for nothing a
week. Mr. Zwiebel, on his part, had agreed to invest five thousand
dollars in Rothman's business, the same to bear interest at 3 per cent.
per annum. He had also bound himself to repay Rothman the weekly salary
of fifteen dollars which Milton was to receive, and when they parted
they shook hands warmly on the transaction.
"Well, Mr. Rothman," Zwiebel concluded, "I hope you will see to it the
boy behaves himself."
Rothman's mouth described a downward arc.
"Don't worry, Mr. Zwiebel," he said; "leave it to me."
* * * * *
Milton Zwiebel had not found his _metier_. He had tried almost
everything in the Business Directory from Architectural Iron Work to
Yarns, Domestic and Imported, and had ascertained all of them to be
lacking in the one quality he craved--excitement.
"That boy is looking for trouble all the time, mommer," Charles Zwiebel
said to his wife on the night after his conversation with Rothman, "and
I guess he will get so much as he wants by Rothman. Such a face I never
seen it before, like Haman. If Milton should get fresh with him,
mommer, he would get it a _Schlag_, I bet yer."
"Ain't you ashamed to talk that way?" Mrs. Zwiebel protested.
"It'll do the boy good, mommer," Mr. Zwiebel replied. "That boy is a
regular loafer. It's eleven o'clock already and he ain't home yet. What
that lowlife does when he stays out till all hours of the night I don't
know. One thing is sure, he ain't doing no good. I hate to think where
that boy will end up, mommer."
He shook his head and heavily ascended the stairs to bed, while Mrs.
Zwiebel settled herself down with the evening paper to await Milton's
return.
She had a weary vigil ahead of her, for Milton had at last found
serious employment. Only that evening he had been engaged by Professor
Felix Lusthaus as a double-bass player in Lusthaus's grand orchestra of
forty pieces. This organization had been hired to render the dance
music for the fifteenth annual ball of Harmony Lodge, 142, I.O.M.A.,
and the chairman of the entertainment committee had been influenced in
his selection by the preponderating number of the orchestra's members
over other competing bands.
Now, to the inexperienced ear twenty-five players will emit nearly as
much noise as forty, and in view of this circumstance Professor
Lusthaus was accustomed to hire twenty-five bona-fide members of the
musical union, while the remaining fifteen pieces were what are
technically known as sleepers. That is to say, Professor Lusthaus
provided them with instruments and they were directed to go through the
motions without making any sound.
Milton, for instance, was instructed how to manipulate the fingerboard
of his ponderous instrument, but he was enjoined to draw his bow across
the metal base of the music-stand and to avoid the strings upon peril
of his job. During the opening two-step Milton's behaviour was
exemplary. He watched the antics of the other _contra basso_ and
duplicated them so faithfully as to call for a commendatory nod from
the Professor at the conclusion of the number.
His undoing began with the second dance, which was a waltz. As _contra
basso_ performer he stood with his fellow-artist at the rear of the
platform facing the dancing floor, and no sooner had Professor
Lusthaus's baton directed the first few measures than Milton's
imitation grew spiritless. He had espied a little girl in white with
eyes that flashed her enjoyment of the dreamy rhythm. Her cheeks glowed
and her lips were parted, while her tiny gloved hand rested like a
flower on the shoulder of her partner. They waltzed half-time, as the
vernacular has it, and to Milton it seemed like the apotheosis of the
dance. He gazed wide-eyed at the fascinating scene and was only brought
to himself when the drummer poked him in the ribs with the butt end of
the drumstick. For the remainder of the waltz he performed discreetly
on the music-stand and his fingers chased themselves up and down the
strings with lifelike rapidity.
"Hey, youse," Professor Lusthaus hissed after he had laid down his
baton, "what yer trying to do? Queer the whole thing? Hey?"
"I thought I--now--seen a friend of mine," Milton said lamely.
"Oh, yer did, did yer?" Professor Lusthaus retorted. "Well, when you
play with this here orchestra you want to remember you ain't got a
friend in the world, see?"
Milton nodded.
"And, furthermore," the Professor concluded, "make some more breaks
like that and see what'll happen you."
Waltzes and two-steps succeeded each other with monotonous regularity
until the grand march for supper was announced. For three years Ferdy
Rothman had been chairman of the entertainment and floor committee of
Harmony Lodge I.O.M.A.'s annual ball, and he was a virtuoso in the
intricate art of arranging a grand march to supper. His aids were six
in number, and as Ferdy marched up the ballroom floor they were
standing with their backs to the music platform ten paces apart. When
Ferdy arrived at the foot of the platform he faced about and split the
line of marching couples. The ladies wheeled sharply to the right and
the gentlemen to the left, and thereafter began a series of evolutions
which, in the mere witnessing, would have given a blacksnake lumbago.
Again Milton became entranced and his fingers remained motionless on
the strings, while, instead of sawing away on the music-stand, his
right arm hung by his side. Once more the drummer missed a beat and
struck him in the ribs, and Milton, looking up, caught sight of the
glaring, demoniacal Lusthaus.