_Morrisania_ there ain't no more motion than if a feller would be going
to Coney Island, Mawruss."
"That's all right, Abe," Morris replied firmly. "Me, if I would go to
Coney Island, I am taking always the trolley, Abe, from the New York
side of the bridge. Furthermore, Abe, if Sammet Brothers sends a drinker
like Hymie Salzman to Paris, Abe, they got a right to spend their money
the way they want to; but all I got to say is that we shouldn't be
afraid they would cop out any of our trade on that account, Abe. Hymie
would come home with new idees of tchampanyer wine and not garments,
Abe."
"Sure, I know, Mawruss," Abe retorted; "but if you would go over to
Paris, Mawruss, you would come back with some new idees which you would
turn out some real snappy stuff, Mawruss. As it is, Mawruss, with a
sticker like you got it there, Mawruss, we would ruin our business."
"All right, Abe; I heard enough. You got altogether too much to say for
a feller which comes downtown at ten o'clock with no excuse nor
nothing."
At this point Abe interrupted his partner long enough to relate his
visit to Moe Griesman, but the information entirely failed to placate
Morris.
"All right, Abe," he shouted; "why don't you go to Paris? That's all
you're fit for. I got a wife and baby, Abe; but with a feller which he
has got no more interest in his home, y'understand, than he wants to go
to Paris, Abe--all right! Go ahead, Abe; go to Paris. I am satisfied."
Abe regarded his partner for one hesitating moment.
"_Schon gut_, I will go to Paris," he said; and the next moment the
elevator door closed behind him.
For five minutes after Abe's departure Morris gazed earnestly at his
newest creation. He had intended the model as a pleasant surprise to his
partner, since not only had he conceived the garment to be a triumph of
the dressmaker's art, but it had been finished far in advance of the
season for originating new styles. He had confidently expected an
enthusiastic reception of this _chef-d'oeuvre_; but in view of Abe's
scathing criticism, he commenced to doubt his own estimate of the beauty
of the dress. Indeed, the longer he looked at it the uglier it appeared,
until at length he grabbed it roughly and literally tore it from the
wire form. He had rolled it into a ball and was about to cast it into a
corner when the elevator door opened and a young lady stepped out.
"Good morning, Mr. Perlmutter," she said.
Morris turned his face in the direction of the speaker and at once his
mouth expanded into a broad grin.
"Why, Miss Smith!" he exclaimed as he rushed forward to greet her. "How
do you do? Me and Mrs. Perlmutter was just talking about you to-day. How
much you think that boy weighs now?"
"Sixteen pounds," Miss Smith replied.
"Twenty-two," Morris cried--"net."
"You don't say so!" said Miss Smith.
"We got you to thank for that, Miss Smith," Morris continued. "The
doctor says without you anything could happen."
Miss Smith deprecated this compliment to her professional skill with a
smiling shake of the head.
"We wouldn't forget it in a hurry," Morris declared. "Everything what
that boy is to-day, Miss Smith, we owe it to you."
"You're making it hard for me, Mr. Perlmutter," Miss Smith replied,
"because I've come to ask you a favour."
"A favour?" Morris replied. "You couldn't ask me to do you a favour
because it wouldn't be no favour. It would be a pleasure. What could I
do for you?"
"I have to leave town to-morrow on a case," Miss Smith explained, "and I
need a dress in a hurry, something light for evening wear."
Morris frowned perplexedly.
"That's too bad," he said, "because just at present we got nothing but
last year's goods in stock--all except--all except this."
He unfolded the model and shook it out.
"What a pretty dress!" Miss Smith cried, clasping her hands.
"Pretty!" Morris exclaimed. "How could you say it was pretty?"
"It's perfectly stunning," Miss Smith continued. "What size is it, Mr.
Perlmutter?"
"The usual size," Morris replied; "thirty-six."
"Why, that's just my size," Miss Smith declared. "Let me see it." Morris
handed her the dress and she examined it carefully. "What a pity," she
said, "it has a slight rip in front. Somebody's been handling it
carelessly."
"Sure, I know," Morris said. "I tore it myself, Miss Smith; but if you
really and truly like it, Miss Smith, which I tell you the truth I
don't, and my partner neither, you are welcome to it, and I would give
you a little piece from the same goods which you could fix up the rip
with."
"I couldn't think of it," Miss Smith replied.
"Not at all, Miss Smith. You would do me a favour if you would take it
along with you right now."
Miss Smith fairly beamed as she opened her handbag.
"How much is it?" she asked.
"How much is it?" Morris repeated. "Why, Miss Smith, you could take that
dress only on one condition. The condition is that you wouldn't pay me
nothing for it, and that next fall, when we really got something in
stock, you would come in and pick out as many of our highest-price
garments as you would want."
Morris's hand shook so with this unusual access of generosity that he
could hardly wrap up the garment.
"Also, Miss Smith, I expect you will come up and have dinner with us as
soon as you get back from wherever you are going. Already the baby
commences to recognize people which he meets, and we want him he should
never forget you, Miss Smith."
The cordiality with which Morris ushered Miss Smith into the elevator
was in striking contrast to the brusk manner in which he greeted Abe
half an hour later.
"_Nu!_" he growled. "Where was you now?"
"By the steamship office," Abe replied. "I am going next Saturday."
"Going next Saturday?" Morris repeated. "Where to?"
"To Paris," Abe replied, "on the same ship with Moe Griesman, Leon
Sammet and Hymie Salzman."
Morris nodded slowly as the news sank in.
"Well, all I could say is, Abe," he commented at length, "that I don't
wish you and the other passengers no harm, y'understand; but, with them
three suckers on board the ship, I hope it sinks."
* * * * *
The five days preceding Abe's departure were made exceedingly busy for
him by Morris, who soon became reconciled to his partner's
fashion-hunting trip, particularly when he learned that Moe Griesman
formed part of the quarry.
"You got to remember one thing, Abe," he declared. "Extremes is nix. Let
the other feller buy the freaks; what we are after is something in
moderation."
"You shouldn't worry about that, Mawruss," Abe replied. "I wouldn't
bring you home no such model like you showed it me this week."
"You would be lucky if you wouldn't bring home worser yet," Morris
retorted. "But anyhow that ain't the point. I got here the names of a
couple commission men which it is their business to look out for
greenhorns."
"What d'ye mean, greenhorn?" Abe cried indignantly. "I ain't no
greenhorn."
"That's all right," Morris went on; "in France only the Frenchers ain't
greenhorns. You ain't told me what kind of a stateroom you got it."
"Well, the outside rooms was one hundred and twenty-five dollars and the
inside room, was eight-five dollars," Abe explained; "so I took an
inside room because the light wouldn't come in and wake me up so early
in the morning, Mawruss, and forty dollars is as good to me as it is to
them suckers what runs the steamboat company. Ain't it?"
Nevertheless, when Abe found himself in his upper berth the morning
after he had parted with Minnie, Rosie, and Morris at the pier, he had
reason to regret his economy. He shared his stateroom with a singer of
minor operatic rôles, who, as a souvenir of a farewell luncheon ashore,
carried into that narrow precinct an odour of garlic that persisted for
the entire voyage. In addition, the returning artist smoked Egyptian
cigarettes and anointed his generous head of hair with violet
brilliantine. Hence it was not until the boat was passing Brow Head that
Abe staggered up the companionway to the promenade deck.
"Why, hallo, Abe!" cried a bronzed and bulky figure. "I ain't seen you
for almost a week."
"No?" Abe murmured. "Well, if you would wanted to seen me, Leon, you
knew where you could find me: just below the pantry my stateroom was,
inside. A dawg shouldn't got to live in such a place."
At this juncture Salzman appeared to summon his employer to a game of
auction pinocle in the smoking room, and as Abe started to make a feeble
promenade around the deckhouse he encountered Moe Griesman. After Moe
had taken Abe's hand in a limp clasp he nodded in the direction of the
smoking room.
"What d'ye think of them two suckers?" he croaked. "They ain't missed a
meal since they came aboard."
"What could you expect from a couple of tough propositions like that?"
Abe replied. "Was you sick, Moe?"
"Sick!" Griesman exclaimed. "I give you my word, Abe, last Thursday
night I was so sick that I commenced to figure out already how much I
would of saved in premiums if my insurings policies would be straight
life instead of endowment. No, Abe; this here business of going to Paris
for your styles ain't what it's cracked up to be. Always up to now I got
fine weather crossing, but the way the water has been the last six days,
Abe, I am beginning to think I could get just so good idees of the
season's models right in New York."
"D'ye know, Moe," said Abe, "I'm starting to feel hungry? I wish that
feller with the _shofar_ would come."
Hardly had he spoken when the ship's bugler announced luncheon, but it
was some minutes before Moe could summon up sufficient courage to go
below to the dining saloon, and when they entered they found Leon Sammet
and Hymie Salzman had nearly concluded their meal.
"Steward," Leon shouted as Moe sat down next to him, "bring me a nice
piece of Camembert cheese."
"One moment, Leon," Griesman interrupted; "if you bring that stuff under
my nose here I would never buy from you a dollar's worth more goods so
long as I live!"
"The feller goes too far, Abe," he said, after Leon had cancelled the
order and departed to drink his coffee in the smoking room. "The feller
goes too far. Yesterday afternoon I was sitting on deck, and the way I
felt, Abe, my worst enemy wouldn't got to feel it. Do you believe me,
Abe, that feller got the nerve to offer me a cigar yet! It pretty near
finished me up. He only done it out of spite, Abe, but I fooled him. I
took the cigar and I got it in my pocket right now."
"Don't show me," Abe cried hurriedly. "I'll tell you the truth: there
ain't nothing in the smoking habit. I'm going to cut it out. Waiter,
bring me only a plate of clear soup and some dry toast. There ain't no
need for a feller to smoke, Moe; it's only an extra expense."
"I think you're right, Abe," Moe said; "but I know that this here cigar
cost Leon a quarter on board ship here, and I thought I would show him
he shouldn't get so gay."
Despite Abe's resolution, however, a large black cigar protruded from
his moustache when he stood on the wharf at Cherbourg, twenty-four hours
later, and a small, ill-shaven stevedore, clad in a dark blouse and
shabby corduroy trousers, pointed to the cloud of smoke that issued from
Abe's lips and chattered a voluble protest.
"What does he say, Moe?" Abe asked.
"I don't know," Moe replied. "He's talking French."
"French!" Abe exclaimed. "What are you trying to do--kid me? A dirty
_schlemiel_ of a greenhorn like him should talk French! What an idee!"
Nevertheless, Abe was made to throw away his cigar, and it was not until
the quartette were snugly enclosed in a first-class compartment en route
to Paris that Abe felt safe to indulge in another cigar. He explored his
pockets, but without result.
"Moe," he said, "do you got maybe another cigar on you?"
"I'm smoking the one which Leon give it me on the ship the other day,"
Moe replied. "Leon, be a good feller; give him a cigar."
"I give you my word, Moe, this is the last one," Leon replied as he bit
the end off a huge invincible.
"You got something there bulging in your vest pocket, Abe. Why don't you
smoke it?"
"That ain't a cigar," Abe answered; "that's a fountain pen."
"Smoke it anyhow," Leon advised; "because the only cigars you could get
on this train is French Government cigars, and I'd sooner tackle a
fountain pen as one of them rolls of spinach."
"That's a country!" Abe commented. "Couldn't even get a decent cigar
here!"
"In Paris you could get plenty good cigars," Hymie Salzman said, and
Hymie was right for, at the Gare St. Lazare, M. Adolphe Kaufmann-Levi,
_commissionnaire_, awaited them, his pockets literally spilling
red-banded perfectos at every gesture of his lively fingers. M.
Kaufmann-Levi spoke English, French, and German with every muscle of his
body from the waist up.
"Welcome to France, Mr. Potash," he said. "You had a good voyage,
doubtless; because you Americans are born sailors."
"Maybe we are born sailors," Abe admitted, "but I must of grew out of
it. I tell you the honest truth, if I could go back by trolley, and it
took a year, I would do it."
"The weather is always more settled in July than in August," said M.
Kaufmann-Levi, "and I wouldn't worry about the return trip just now. I
have rooms for you gentlemen all on one floor of a hotel near the
Opera, and taximeters are in waiting. After you have settled we will
take dinner together."
Thus it happened that, at half past six that evening, M. Kaufmann-Levi
conducted his four guests from the Restaurant Marguery to a sidewalk
table of the Café de la Paix, and for almost an hour they watched the
crowd making its way to the Opera.
"You see, Moe," Abe said, "everything is tunics this year; tunics _oder_
chiffon overskirts, net collars and yokes."
Moe nodded absently. His eyes were glued to a lady sitting at the next
table.
"You got to come to Paris to see 'em, Abe," he murmured. "They don't
make 'em like that in America."
"We make as good garments in America as anywhere," Abe protested.
"Garments I ain't talking about at all," Moe whispered hoarsely; "I mean
peaches. Did y'ever see anything like that lady there sitting next to
you? Look at the get-up, Abe. Ain't it chic?"
"It's a pretty good-looking model, Moe," Abe replied, "but a bit too
plain for us. See all the fancy-looking garments there are round here."
"Plain nothing!" Moe muttered. "Look at the way it fits her. I tell you,
Abe, the French ladies know how to wear their clothes."
A moment later the couple at the next table passed along toward the
Opera, and once more Abe and Moe turned their attention to the crowds on
the boulevard.
For the remainder of their stay in Paris Abe and Leon spent their time
in a ceaseless hunt for new models and their nights in plying Moe
Griesman with entertainment. It cannot be said that Moe discouraged them
to any marked degree, for while he occasionally hinted to Abe that the
New York cloak and suit trade was an open market, and garment buyers had
a large field from which to choose, he also told Leon that he saw no
reason why he should not continue to buy goods from Sammet Brothers,
provided the prices were right.
Nearly every evening found them sitting at the corner table of the Café
de la Paix, and upon many of these occasions the next table was occupied
by the same couple that sat there on the night of Abe's arrival in
Paris.
"You know, Abe, that dress is the most uniquest thing in Paris," Moe
exclaimed on the evening of the last day in Paris. "I ain't seen nothing
like it anywhere."
"Good reason, Moe," Leon Sammet cried; "it's rotten. That's one of last
year's models."
"What are you talking nonsense? One of the last year's models!" Moe
Griesman cried indignantly. "Don't you think I know a new style when I
see it?"
"Moe is right, Leon," Abe said. "You ain't got no business to talk
that way at all. The style is this year's model."
"Of course, Abe," Leon said with ironic precision, "when a judge like
you says something, y'understand, then it's so. Take another of them
sixty-cent ice-creams, Moe."
Ordinarily Abe would have turned Leon's sarcasm with a retort in kind,
but Leon's remark fell on deaf ears, for Abe was listening to a
conversation at the next table and the language was English.
"It's time to start back to the hotel," said the young lady to her
escort, who was an elderly gentleman.
Abe turned to Moe and Leon.
"Excuse me for a few minutes," he said; "I got to go back to the hotel
for something."
He handed Leon a twenty-franc piece.
"If I shouldn't get back, pay the bill!" he cried, and jumping to his
feet he followed the couple from the next table.
The old gentleman walked feebly with the aid of a cane, and the young
lady held him by the arm as they proceeded to the main entrance of the
Grand Hotel. Abe dogged their footsteps until the old gentleman
disappeared into the lift and the young lady retired to the winter
garden that forms the interior court of the hotel. As she seated herself
in a wicker chair Abe approached with his hat in his hand.
"Lady, excuse me," he began; "I ain't no loafer. I'm in the cloak and
suit business, and I would like to speak to you a few words--something
very particular."
The young lady turned in her chair. She was not alarmed, only surprised.
"I hope you don't think I am asking you anything out of the way," Abe
said, without further prelude; "but you got a dress on, lady, which I
don't know how much you paid for it, but if three hundred of these
here--now--francs would be any inducement I'd like to buy it from you.
Of course I wouldn't ask you to take it off right now, but if you would
leave it at the clerk's desk here I could call for it in half an hour."
The young lady made no reply, instead she threw back her head and
laughed heartily.
"It ain't no joke, lady," Abe continued as he laid three flimsy notes of
the Bank of France in her lap. "That's as good as American greenbacks."
The young lady ceased laughing, and for a minute, hesitated between
indignation and renewed mirth, but at last her sense of humour
conquered.
"Very well," she said; "stay here for a few minutes."
Half an hour later she returned with the dress wrapped up in a paper
parcel.
"How did you know I wouldn't go off with the money, dress and all?"
she asked as Abe seized the package.
"I took a chance, lady," he said; "like you are doing about the money
which I give you being good."
"Have no scruples on that score," the young lady replied. "I had it
examined at the clerk's office just now."
* * * * *
When M. Adolphe Kaufmann-Levi bade farewell to Moe, Abe, Leon, and Hymie
Salzman, at the Gare St. Lazare, he uttered words of encouragement and
cheer which failed to justify themselves after the four travellers'
embarkment at Cherbourg.
"You will have splendid weather," he had declared. "It will be fine all
the way over."
When the steamer passed out of the breakwater into the English Channel
she breasted a northeaster that lasted all the way to the Banks. Even
Hymie Salzman went under, and Leon Sammet walked the swaying decks
alone. Twice a day he poked his head into the stateroom occupied by Moe
Griesman and Abe Potash, for Abe had thrown economy to the winds and had
gone halves with Moe in the largest outside room on board.
"Boys," Leon would ask, "ain't you going to get up? The air is fine on
deck."
Had he but known it, Moe Griesman developed day by day, with growing
intensity, that violent hatred for Leon that the hopelessly seasick
feel toward good sailors; while toward Abe, who groaned unceasingly in
the upper berth, Moe Griesman evinced the affectionate interest that the
poor sailor evinces in any one who suffers more keenly than himself.
At length Nantucket lightship was passed, and as the sea grew calmer two
white-faced invalids, that on close scrutiny might have been recognized
by their oldest friends to be Moe and Abe, tottered up the companionway
and sank exhausted into the nearest deckchairs.
"Well, Moe," Leon cried, as he bustled toward them smoking a large cigar
and clad in a suit of immaculate white flannels, "so you're up again?"
The silence with which Moe received this remark ought to have warned
Leon, but he plunged headlong to his fate.
"We are now only twenty hours from New York," he said, "and suppose I go
downstairs and bring you up some of them styles which I got in Paris."
"You shouldn't trouble yourself," Moe said shortly.
"Why not?" Leon inquired.
"Because, for all I care," Moe replied viciously, "you could fire 'em
overboard. I would _oser_ buy from you a button."
"What's the matter?" Leon cried.
"You know what's the matter," Moe continued.
"You come every day into my stateroom and mock me yet because I am
sick."
"I mock you!" Leon exclaimed.
"That's what I said," Moe continued; "and if you wouldn't take that
cigar away from here I'll break your neck when I get on shore again."
Leon backed away hurriedly and Moe turned to Abe.
"Am I right or wrong?" he said.
Abe nodded. He was incapable of audible speech, but hour by hour he grew
stronger until at dinner-time he was able to partake of some soup and
roast beef, and even to listen with a wan smile to Moe's caustic
appraisement of Leon Sammet's character. Finally, after a good night's
rest, Moe and Abe awoke to find the engine stilled at Quarantine. They
were saved the necessity of packing their trunks for the cogent reason
that they had been physically unable to open them, let alone unpack
them. Hence they repaired at once to breakfast.
Leon was already seated at table, and he hastily cancelled an order for
Yarmouth bloater and asked instead for a less fragrant dish.
"Good morning, Moe," he said pleasantly.
Moe turned to Abe. "To-morrow morning at nine o'clock, Abe," he said, "I
would be down in your store to look over your line."
"Steward," Leon Sammet cried, "never mind that steak. I would take the
bloater anyhow."
Abe and Moe breakfasted lightly on egg and toast, and returned to their
stateroom as they passed the Battery.
"Say, lookyhere, Moe," Abe said; "I want to show you something which I
bought for you as a surprise the night before we left Paris. I got it
right in the top of my suitcase here, and it wouldn't take a minute to
show it to you."
Abe was unstrapping his suitcase as he spoke, and the next minute he
shook out the gown he had purchased from the young lady of the Cafe de
la Paix, and exposed it to Moe's admiring gaze.
"How did you get hold of that, Abe?" Moe asked.
Abe narrated his adventure at the Grand Hotel, while Moe gaped his
astonishment.
"I always thought you got a pretty good nerve, Abe," he declared, "but
this sure is the limit. How much did you pay for it?"
"Three hundred of them--now--francs," Abe replied; "but I've been
figuring out the cost of manufacturing and material, and I could
duplicate it in New York for forty dollars a garment."
"You mean thirty-five dollars a garment, don't you?" Moe said.
"No, I don't," Abe replied. "I mean forty dollars a garment. Why do you
say thirty-five dollars?"
"Because at forty dollars apiece, Abe, I could use for my Sarahcuse,
Rochester, and Buffalo stores about fifty of these garments, and you
ought to figure on at least five dollars' profit on a garment."
"Well, maybe I am figuring it a little too generous, y'understand; so,
if that goes, Moe, I will quote the selling price at, say, forty dollars
a garment to you, Moe."
"Sure, it goes," Moe said; "and I'll be at your store to-morrow morning
at nine o'clock to decide on sizes and shades."
Abe's passage through the customs examination was accomplished with
ease, for nearly all his Paris purchases were packed in the hold to be
cleared by a custom-house broker. His stateroom baggage contained no
dutiable articles save the gown in question and a few trinkets for
Rosie, who was at the pier to greet him. Indeed, she bestowed on him a
series of kisses that reechoed down the long pier, and Abe's pallor gave
way to the sunburnt hue of his amused fellow-passengers. In one of them
Abe recognized with a start the tanned features of the young lady of the
Café de la Paix.
"Moe," he said, nudging Griesman, "there's your friend."
Moe turned in the direction indicated by Abe, and his interested manner
was not unnoticed by Mrs. Potash.
"How is your dear wife and daughter, Mr. Griesman?" she asked
significantly. "I suppose you missed 'em a whole lot."
When Moe assured her that he did she sniffed so violently that it might
have been taken for a snort.
"Well, Abe," he said at length, "I'll be going on to the Prince
Clarence, and I'll see you in the store to-morrow morning. Good-by, Mrs.
Potash."