first visit North in twenty-five years. Yes, Mr.--er----"
"Potash," Abe said.
"Mr. Potash," Gershon continued, "I'm feeling pretty lonesome, I can
tell you. All my folks is dead: my father, my mother, my two uncles; and
there ain't a soul here in New York which remembers me at all."
"Is that so?" Abe commented, with ready sympathy.
"Yes, Mr. Potash," Gershon said, "when I was a boy I done a fool thing.
When I was sixteen years old already I run away from home because my
father licked me; and I never wrote to 'em or sent no word to 'em until
it was too late. You see, up to five years since, I didn't done so good.
Everything seemed to went against me, Mr. Potash; but lately I am doing
a fine business for a small place like Johnsville, and to-day I got the
best store down there."
"You don't say so!" Abe cried.
"So I thought last month, instead I would go to Dallas or Forth Worth
like I usually done, I would come straight on to New York and not only
buy my fall goods but also give the old folks a surprise. And what do I
find? Everybody is dead."
Mr. Gershon pressed a handkerchief to his eyes.
"You shouldn't take on so," Abe said, leaning across the table and
placing his hand on Gershon's arm. "It's the way of the world, Mr.
Gershon, and I could assure you we got the finest line of garments in
our store, which it is first-class stuff, up to the minute, and prices
and everything just right."
Mr. Gershon wiped his eyes.
"You must excuse me, Mr. Potash," he said. "My feelings is got the
better of me."
"That's all right," Abe murmured. "Here is our card, and you should
positively come up to see us. Even if you wouldn't buy from us a button,
Mr. Gershon, it would be a pleasure for us to see you in our place."
"I would sure be there," Mr. Gershon said as he pocketed the card.
"Waiter," Abe called, "put this here gentleman's check on mine and bring
us two of them thirty-cent cigars."
* * * * *
So eagerly did Morris await the advent of Uncle Mosha Kronberg in Potash
& Perlmutter's store that he even omitted to notice his partner's
prolonged absence at lunch; and when Abe returned to unfold the
narrative of his meeting with a prospective customer Morris heard it
without interest.
"The feller is A number one, Mawruss," Abe said. "I stopped off to see
Sam Feder at the Kosciusko Bank, and Sam sent me to the Associated
Information Bureau. He is rated twenty to thirty thousand; credit good."
"Yes?" Morris replied. "Tell me, Abe, did Mosha Kronberg say just when
he would be here?"
"What are you wasting your time about Mosha Kronberg for?" Abe retorted.
"We got enough to do we should pick out a few good styles to show
Gershon."
Morris nodded absently. His thoughts were centred on a short old man
with close-cropped beard who at that very moment was turning the corner
of Fifth Avenue and Nineteenth Street. Simultaneously Aaron Kronberg ran
across the street from Sammet Brothers' doorway and clapped the old
gentleman on the shoulder.
"Hello, Uncle Mosha!" he cried. "What are you doing around here?"
"Couldn't I come uptown oncet in a while if I would want to?" Uncle
Mosha replied, somewhat testily.
"Sure, sure," Aaron Kronberg hastened to say. "Did you eat yet?"
"I never eat in the middle of the day," Uncle Mosha said. "I am up here
on business."
"On business?" Aaron repeated. "What for business?"
"I think I sold the house," Mosha replied.
For one brief moment Aaron gazed at his uncle and then he linked his arm
in that of the old man. "Come over to Twenty-third Street and drink
anyhow a cup of coffee," he said, and ten minutes later they entered an
enamelled brick dairy restaurant.
"You say you think you sold the house?" Aaron said, after a waitress had
served them.
Uncle Mosha nodded. He was emptying a cup of coffee in long, noisy
inhalations and at the same time consuming cheese sandwiches with
uncommonly keen appetite--for a man who never ate in the middle of the
day.
"Yes, Aaron," Uncle Mosha said, as he emerged all dripping from the cup,
"I think I sold the house, and I guess I would have another cup
coffee."
"Go ahead," Aaron replied. "But what for you want to sell the house,
Uncle Mosha? It brings you in anyhow a good income."
"A good income for some people, Aaron, but for me not. What is one
thousand a year, Aaron?"
"One thousand a year, uncle, is a whole lot, especially to a man like
you, what lives simple."
"My living expenses is very little, I admit, Aaron," Uncle Mosha
replied, after he had disposed of the second cup of coffee with noises
approximating a bathtubful of soapy water disappearing down the
wastepipe. "I don't make no fuss about my living, Aaron, but you got to
remember, Aaron, that a man couldn't live on living expenses alone.
Oncet in a while a feller likes to take a little flyer in the market and
try and make a few dollars. Ain't it?"
"What!" Aaron exclaimed. This was a phase of his uncle's character that
had never been exposed before.
"Yes, Aaron," Uncle Mosha continued; "living ain't only having a room to
sleep in and food to eat, Aaron. Other things is living, Aaron. Stocks
is living and auction pinocle is also living, and going oncet in a while
on theayter is living too, Aaron. I may be an old man, Aaron, but I
ain't dead yet."
Aaron's pale face grew almost ghastly at these shocking disclosures, and
when Uncle Mosha concluded his audacious creed with a furtive wink his
nephew visibly started.
"But you got plenty other money to invest in the stock market without
you would sell the house, Uncle Mosha," he said.
"Have I?" Uncle Mosha rejoined. "That's news to me, Aaron. You see in
nineteen-seven was a big panic and some stocks is better as others. Them
which ain't, Aaron, they went and gone so low, Aaron, they ain't never
come back again and perhaps never will. Might you heard something about
it in Port Sullivan maybe? Ten thousand dollars I dropped on them
suckers down in Wall Street, Aaron."
Uncle Mosha smiled blandly at his nephew, who grasped the edge of the
table to steady his whirling senses.
"But what's the use talking," Uncle Mosha continued. "What is _vorbei_
is _vorbei_; and I guess I would have another cup of coffee."
"You had enough coffee," Aaron cried sternly. "So you gone and dropped
your money on stocks, hey?"
Uncle Mosha shrugged and extended one palm in philosophic resignation.
"It was my own money, Aaron," he said. "I didn't stole it."
"This ain't no time for making jokes, Uncle Mosha," Aaron retorted. "Who
was it you was going to sell the house to?"
"Maybe you know him," Uncle Mosha said. "It's a feller by the name
Mawruss Perlmutter."
Aaron Kronberg's pallor gave way to a flood of crimson, and for a moment
he choked incoherently as he gazed at Uncle Mosha in amazement.
"Why, that feller Perlmutter is a friend of Alex," he gasped at length.
"Sure, I know," Uncle Mosha replied; "but even if he is a friend of Alex
his money ain't counterfeit."
"But he'd rob you of your shirt, Uncle Mosha," Aaron exclaimed. "He's a
dangerous feller."
"I'm used to dangerous fellers, Aaron," Uncle Mosha answered calmly. "I
told you before, I dropped ten thousand in Wall Street."
"Yes; and if you would sold this here house, Uncle Mosha, you would drop
ten thousand more."
"Not ten thousand, Aaron. I only got eight thousand equity in the
house."
Again Aaron stared at his uncle.
"Do you mean to told me you only got eight thousand dollars in the
world?" he groaned.
"The world is a pretty big place, Aaron," Uncle Mosha said; "but I
wouldn't lie to you anyhow. Eight thousand is the figure."
"Then all I could say is, Uncle Mosha, before you would got to go
begging on the streets yet, you would better sell that house and come to
live with me up in Port Sullivan."
Uncle Mosha shrugged once more.
"I'll tell you the truth, Aaron," he said; "I was going to suggest that
to you myself yet. So let's go right off and see this here Perlmutter
and we'll talk about Port Sullivan later."
"Not by a damsite," Aaron declared, as he rose from his chair and
grasped his uncle firmly by the arm. "You come with me and we'll sell
this house to a feller I know."
* * * * *
When Max Gershon entered the salesroom of Potash & Perlmutter that
afternoon, Abe treated the incident as though it were the arrival of an
intimate friend after an absence of many years' duration.
"How are you feeling now, Max?" he said, and then he introduced his
partner. "Mawruss," he called, "this is my friend, Mr. Max Gershon. Get
the cigars from the safe, Mawruss."
After he had relieved his visitor of his hat and coat he drew forward a
comfortable chair and literally thrust Max into it.
"Well, Max," Abe said, after the cigars had gone around, "I sure am glad
to see you. Mawruss, don't he look like his uncle, old man Baum?"
Morris regarded Max critically for a moment.
"Old man Baum was a pretty good-looking feller, Abe," he said, "but he
wasn't so tall as Mr. Gershon; otherwise they are the same identical
people."
"Never mind his looks," Max said, beaming. "If I should have only his
business ability I would be satisfied."
"He made plenty money in his time," Morris commented.
"Yes, and lost it again too," Max added; "but what's the use talking?
Money I ain't in need of exactly, y'understand."
"You need goods, Max," Abe said. "Is that it?"
"Well, I do and I don't, Abe," Max replied. "The fact is, Abe, I got a
good business down in Johnsville, but I couldn't extend it none on
account the place ain't big enough. Former times that was all cattle
country around there, and now it's all truck farms and cotton, and what
sort of business could a drygoods merchant do with cotton hands? Ain't I
right?"
Abe nodded.
"I tell you the honest truth, Abe," Max continued. "I would like to sell
out and come North. I got an idee if I would find some hustling young
feller up here which he got a good department store--good but small,
y'understand--in a live town, Abe, I would go with him as partners
together, and we could extend the business and make a good thing of it."
Abe looked at Morris and then he slapped his thigh with his open hand.
"By jimminy," he cried, "I got the very thing for you, Max."
Morris gazed at his partner with raised eyebrows and then he too slapped
his thigh.
"Alex Kronberg!" he exclaimed.
"That's the feller," Abe said. "There's a man, Max, which he is honest
like the day and smart as a cutting machine. I know him since he was a
baby, y'understand, and he's worked his way up till now he's got a fine
business in Bridgetown. Only yesterday he says to me if he could get a
live partner with a little capital, y'understand, he would soon got the
biggest store in Bridgetown."
"What for a town is Bridgetown?" Max asked.
"Bridgetown is all right, Max," Abe said. "I give you my word, Max, they
got so many factories there which they burn soft coal, on the brightest
days you couldn't see the sun at all. It is an elegant place, Max."
"And what is more, Max," Morris added, "only last Saturday night, Alex
tells me, the store was so crowded two saleswomen fainted."
"It sounds good," Max admitted. "Who did you say owns the store?"
"Alex Kronberg," Morris replied.
"Kronberg--Kronberg," Max repeated. "The name sounds familiar. When did
you say he would be here?"
"He ought to be in here every minute," Abe said. Hardly had he spoken
when the elevator door clanged and Alex himself entered.
He glistened with perspiration, and his round, good-humoured face bore a
broad grin.
"Phoo-ee!" he cried. "I'm all heated up."
"What's the trouble, Alex?" Morris asked.
"I just run into Aaron and Uncle Mosha coming out of a coffee house, and
the way them two suckers cussed me out, Mawruss!--you wouldn't believe
it at all. I couldn't understand what they was talking about, Mawruss,
but they mentioned your name and something about Mosha's house on
Madison Street."
Abe glared at Morris and then turned to Alex with a forced smile.
"Don't you bother yourself about them fellers, Alex," he said.
"What do I care for 'em, Abe?" Alex replied. "I got my own troubles."
"Sure," Morris broke in; "but what did they say about the house, Alex?"
"So far what I could hear, Mawruss, Aaron says you are trying to buy
from Mosha the house."
"No such thing, Alex, believe me," Abe interrupted.
"But Aaron says he's already got a customer for the house," Alex went
on; "and who d'ye think it is?"
Abe wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and continued to glare at
Morris.
"I don't know who it is," Abe said, "and, what's more, I don't care. I
want to introduce you to a friend of mine, Alex. This is Mr. Max
Gershon, from Johnsville, Texas."
"I'm pleased to meetcher, Mr. Gershon," Alex replied. "Yes, Mawruss,
Aaron says he sold the house already, and who d'ye think he sold it to?"
Morris made an inarticulate noise which he intended as an expression of
curiosity.
"A friend of yours by the name Leon Sammet," Alex Kronberg said.
* * * * *
"You see how it is?" Aaron Kronberg said to his Uncle Mosha as they
passed down Fifth Avenue after their encounter with Alex. "You see how
it is? The feller is a desperate character, Uncle Mosha. You couldn't
make him mad even."
"A lowlife!" Uncle Mosha cried, shaking his head from side to side. "His
mother before him was just such another like him. I could spit blood
hollering at that woman and she wouldn't answer me back at all."
"Well, now you got it," Aaron retorted triumphantly; "and so, if you
would start to sell your house to his friend Perlmutter, the least that
happens to you is they would do you for the whole thing."
"Maybe you're right," Uncle Mosha admitted.
"And so I am going to take you over to see a friend of mine by the name
Leon Sammet," Aaron continued, "and if you want to leave the thing to
me, Uncle Mosha, I am certain sure I could get you a good price for the
house."
"Certain sure nobody could be of getting a good price for a house in
these times, Aaron," Uncle Mosha said. "Real estate on the East Side is
'way down, Aaron. The subway ruins everything."
"I don't care about subways nor nothing," Aaron cried. "I would get you
what you want for that house. What would you consider a good price for
the house, uncle?"
"A very good price would be forty-two two-fifty," Uncle Mosha replied;
"but me I would be willing to accept forty thousand."
"Well, lookyhere," Aaron commenced; "I'm going to do this for you, Uncle
Mosha. I'm going to get Leon Sammet to give you not forty thousand or
forty-two two-fifty neither. I'm going to get Leon Sammet to give you
forty-three thousand for the house, uncle, but I only do it on one
condition, uncle."
"And what is that?" Uncle Mosha asked.
"I would do it for you only on condition you come to live with me at
Port Sullivan," Aaron concluded; "and also you must give me, to take
care of it for you, all the cash money you get for the house."
Uncle Mosha frowned as he drew from his pocket a small packet wrapped in
newspaper. This he proceeded to unwrap until there was exposed the
unburnt half of a large black cigar. It was all that remained of Morris
Perlmutter's gift and Uncle Mosha carefully knocked the ash off before
he put it in his mouth.
"Why don't you answer me?" Aaron asked.
"I got to think, ain't I?" Uncle Mosha mumbled as he paused to light up.
He puffed away in silence until they had nearly reached the entrance to
Sammet Brothers' place of business.
"_Schon gut_, Aaron," Uncle Mosha said at length. "I will do it with
this here exception: I would sell the house for forty-three thousand
dollars, subject to a first mortgage of twenty-five thousand dollars,
and a second mortgage of ninety-two hundred and fifty dollars. That
leaves eighty-seven hundred and fifty dollars balance, ain't it?"
Aaron nodded.
"Then this here Sammet is to pay seven hundred and fifty dollars cash on
signing the contract and eight thousand dollars on closing the title,"
Uncle Mosha declared; "and the exception is that you should take care of
the eight thousand dollars, but the seven hundred and fifty dollars
belongs to me and I could do what I like with it."
For ten minutes Aaron argued with his uncle in front of Sammet Brothers'
building, but all to no purpose, for Uncle Mosha remained unmoved.
Either he was to receive the seven hundred and fifty dollars on the
signing of the contract or the entire deal was off; and at length he
prevailed.
"All right," Aaron said, "you shall have the seven hundred and fifty,
but one thing you must got to do. When we go into Leon Sammet's loft I
want you to let me and Leon speak a few words, something alone together.
Are you agreeable?"
"Sure, why not?" Uncle Mosha agreed. "You got to work the feller up to
buying the house, ain't yer?"
Aaron nodded gloomily as they entered the elevator, and when it stopped
at Sammet Brothers' floor he strode out So rapidly that Uncle Mosha, who
had never before visited Sammet Brothers', hardly noticed his nephew's
exit. Before he could follow Aaron the elevator attendant slammed the
door, and it was not reopened until Uncle Mosha had expressed his
agitation in a burst of spirited profanity.
"Did you see that, Aaron?" he exclaimed after he had caught up to his
nephew. "I come pretty close to getting killed just now in that there
elevator."
"Why don't you keep your eyes open?" Aaron asked callously. "Now you sit
down here and wait until I am coming out."
He entered Leon Sammet's private office, and as soon as Uncle Mosha
found himself alone in the showroom he clenched the butt of his cigar
between his yellow teeth and explored his pockets for pencil and
paper. Having found them, he was soon plunged in a maze of figures
representing the profit in going short of seven hundred shares on a
one-point margin, assuming that the market dropped eight points in ten
days.
"Hallo, Aaron," Leon Sammet cried when he caught sight of the younger
Kronberg.
Aaron nodded, with half-closed eyes.
"Sit down, Aaron," Leon continued; "you look worried."
"I bet yer," Aaron replied. "What d'ye think of that sucker?"
"What's Alex been doing now?" Leon asked.
"Alex! What d'ye mean, Alex?" Aaron said. "Alex I ain't worrying about
at all. I mean Uncle Mosha Kronberg."
Forthwith he unfolded to Leon the sum of his uncle's iniquities, sparing
no detail of his own well-nigh ruined prospects and ending with an
account of Uncle Mosha's interrupted deal with Morris Perlmutter.
Leon slammed the top of his desk with his open hand.
"Before I would let that shark, Perlmutter, get the house I would buy it
myself."
"Sure, I know!" Aaron replied. "I thought you would, Leon; but that
ain't necessary. All I want you to do is this, Leon. I told the old
man I could get you to buy the house for forty-three thousand
dollars."
"Forty-three thousand?" Leon exclaimed. "Why that house ain't worth
forty-three thousand!"
"What do I care what it's worth?" Aaron replied. "The game is this,
Leon. You will buy the house for me--Aaron--with my money. You got to
pay seven hundred and fifty cash on signing the contract, and the
balance of eight thousand dollars above the mortgages you got to pay
when the title is closed. I fixed it with the old man that he is to give
me the eight thousand dollars to take care of for him--see? So, when the
title is closed I will give you eight thousand dollars to give Mosha,
and Mosha will turn it back to me; and, Leon, if he ever sees that eight
thousand dollars again it won't be this side of the grave."
Leon nodded.
"Meantime you've got the house," he said.
"Exactly," Aaron replied. "I get the house. All it cost me is seven
hundred and fifty dollars cash, and I also get unloaded on me for the
rest of his life the old man. And while I don't wish him any harm,
y'understand, _Gott soll hüten_ anything should happen to him Leon, it
couldn't come too soon for me."
"I bet yer," Leon said fervently. "And now let's get him in here and
we'll all go down to Henry D. Feldman's office and fix the matter up."
Two hours later Leon and Uncle Mosha had signed a contract for the sale
of the Madison Street house, title to be closed and deed to be delivered
within thirty days. The purchase price was stated to be forty-three
thousand dollars, payable as follows: thirty-four thousand two hundred
and fifty dollars by the vendee taking the house subject to mortgages
aggregating that amount, seven hundred and fifty dollars cash on signing
the contract, and the balance of eight thousand dollars in cash or
certified check at the closing of the title.
Prior to leaving his office Leon had cashed Aaron Kronberg's check for
seven hundred and fifty dollars, and the money, in bills of large
denomination, was turned over to Mosha Kronberg, who tucked them
carefully away in his breast pocket.
"Well, Aaron," he said after the operation was completed, "I guess I'll
be going back to Madison Street."
"Wait; I'll go along with you," Aaron cried.
"Don't you trouble yourself," Uncle Mosha declared with a confidential
wink at Leon Sammet and Henry D. Feldman; "I could take care of myself
all right."
"What are you going to do with all that money, Mr. Kronberg?" Leon asked
as Uncle Mosha turned to leave. The old man paused with his hand on the
door, and once more he favoured his questioner with a significant wink.
"Leave that to me," he said.
The thirty days succeeding Morris Perlmutter's visit to Madison Street
were busy ones for all the Kronbergs. Alex had accompanied Max Gershon
to Bridgetown, where conditions more than fulfilled Abe's glowing
account, and the formation of the Kronberg-Gershon Drygoods Company
proceeded without delay. As for Aaron Kronberg, he found that the
borrowing of eight thousand dollars, even for so short a period as would
be necessary to consummate the Madison Street deal, was no easy task. At
length he raised the sum by paying a large bonus to his bankers in Port
Sullivan, and it was deposited to the credit of Sammet Brothers four
days before the closing of title.
Meantime Uncle Mosha had not neglected the opportunity afforded him
during his last few days of liberty. With his seven hundred and fifty
dollars he had sought the brokerage offices of Klinkberg & Company the
morning after signing his contract with Leon Sammet. There he selected
American Chocolate and Cocoa as the medium of his speculation and
promptly went short of seven hundred on a one-point margin. The same
afternoon he was within a sixteenth of being wiped out when the market
turned, and nearly one month later he took his profit of twenty-one
hundred dollars, which with the original investment, minus the brokerage
amounted to twenty-eight hundred dollars.
"Never no more," he said to the brokerage firm's cashier as he drew
his profit. "I am through oncet and for all. No one could get me to
touch another share of stock so long as I live."
With this solemn declaration he passed out of Klinkberg & Company's
office just as a short stout man burst into the hall from a door marked
"Customers."
"Wow!" the short stout man exclaimed.
"_Warum_ wow?" Uncle Mosha asked.
"Amalgamated Refineries goes up four points on six sales in half an
hour," the short stout man replied, "and I win two thousand."
The short stout man started down the hall and executed a fantastic
dancing step in front of the elevators, while Uncle Mosha entered the
door marked "Customers."
"Mr. Klinkberg," he said, handing Klinkberg & Company's two thousand
eight hundred dollar check to that firm's senior partner, "buy me one
thousand shares Amalgamated Refineries at the market."
An hour later he walked leisurely along Madison Street, and as he
approached his own doorway Aaron Kronberg swooped down upon him.
"Uncle Mosha," he almost screamed, "where was you?"
"Where was I?" Uncle Mosha replied. "Why, I was where I was. That's
where I was. What difference does it make to you where I was?"
"What difference does it make to me?" Aaron cried. "Ain't I putting up
the--er--don't you know you was due at Henry D. Feldman's office to
close your title at one o'clock?--and here it is half-past one already!"
For a minute Uncle Mosha's face fell. In the excitement of following the
profitable course of his speculation he had completely forgotten his
real estate transaction, but he quickly recovered his composure.
"Oh, well," he said, "let 'em wait! The house won't run away, Aaron.
Let's go and get a cup coffee somewheres."
"Coffee, nothing!" Aaron growled; "you're coming right along with me. I
got a carriage waiting for you."