the curb and they started immediately for Henry D. Feldman's office.
"Honest, Aaron," Uncle Mosha sighed, "I feel like I was riding to my own
funeral."
"Don't worry, Uncle Mosha," Aaron said; "with the _tzuris_ which I got
it lately you would quicker ride to mine."
"Well, Aaron," Uncle Mosha rejoined, "as old man Baum used to say, we
all got to die sooner or later, Aaron; and all we could take with us is
our good name."
"You wouldn't got to pay no excess baggage rates on that," Aaron said
as the carriage came to a stop in front of Feldman's office building.
Two minutes later they entered the offices of Henry D. Feldman and were
ushered immediately into the presence of that distinguished advocate
himself. As they passed through the doorway Feldman rose from his seat.
He was not alone, for at one side of a long library table sat Leon
Sammet, while opposite to him a tall, sandy-haired person methodically
arranged various bundles of papers which he drew out of capacious
pasteboard envelopes.
"Ah, gentlemen, you're here at last," Feldman cried. "Mr. Jones, this is
Mr. Kronberg and his nephew, Mr. Aaron Kronberg. Mr. Jones is a
representative of the Land Insurance & Title Guarantee Company, who at
my request has examined the title to your house, Mr. Kronberg."
"All right," Uncle Mosha said; "I ain't scared of 'em. I owned the house
since 1890 already--that's pretty near twenty years, and I ain't paid no
Confederate money for it neither."
Mr. Jones cleared his throat noisily, and as he did so a round white
object leaped from beneath his collar and bumped against his chin. It
was his Adam's apple.
"Did you say you owned the house twenty years?" he inquired in tones of
such profundity that Feldman was obliged to ask him to repeat his
question. At the second repetition Uncle Mosha said that it might be a
month less than twenty years.
"The record shows that you bought the house a little more than nineteen
years ago," Mr. Jones continued--his manner suggested a hanging judge in
the act of assuming the black cap--"and therefore you could claim no
adverse possession, even assuming there were no disabilities."
"What d'ye mean, claim?" Uncle Mosha asked with asperity. "I don't claim
nothing. I already got seven hundred and fifty dollars and there is
coming to me eight thousand dollars more."
"I think, Mr. Jones," Feldman interrupted, "I ought to explain to Mr.
Kronberg the _locus in quo_."
Aaron Kronberg turned pale and wiped a few drops of perspiration from
his forehead.
"What is there to explain, Mr. Feldman?" he broke in. "Go ahead and
close the title to the property. I couldn't sit here all day."
"There's a great deal to be explained," Feldman continued. "He is unable
to convey good title to the property _non constat_ he received a deed of
it in 1890."
"I never heard tell of the feller at all," Uncle Mosha exclaimed. "I am
the only one which received a deed of the property."
Feldman gazed at Uncle Mosha for one dazed moment and then proceeded.
"The last owner in Mr. Kronberg's claim of title--I mean his immediate
vendor--was the only surviving collateral of an intestate," he said.
"That's where you make a big mistake," Uncle Mosha interrupted. "The
feller which I bought the house from was a salesman for a shirt
concern."
Feldman glared at Uncle Mosha and was about to crush him with a flood of
law Latin when the door opened.
"You got to excuse me for butting in, Mr. Feldman," said a harsh voice
which presently was seen to issue from the person of Morris Perlmutter,
"but me and my partner is got to get back to the store and Max and his
partner is also busy to-day."
"I'll be with you in just one moment, Mr. Perlmutter," Feldman replied.
"You says that an hour ago," Morris grumbled as he closed the door
behind him.
"Now, Mr. Kronberg," Feldman continued, "I'd like to elucidate this
situation for you as succinctly as possible."
"Do that afterward, if you got to do it," Uncle Mosha broke in; "but
just now tell me what the trouble is."
"What's the use talking to a mutt that don't understand the English
language at all?" Feldman cried. "Listen here to me. You bought your
house from a fellow called Nathan Baum."
"Sure, I did," Uncle Mosha said. "You remember him, Sammet? He went to
work and got killed in a railroad accident ten years ago already."
"Don't interrupt," Feldman cried. "Nathan Baum was the brother of Max
Baum, a former owner of the house. Max Baum died while he owned the
house and he left no will, and Nathan Baum claimed the house as the only
heir of Max Baum."
"That's right," Mosha agreed. "Nathan Baum was the only relative in the
world which Max Baum got it. He had a sister, but she died before Max."
"Was Max Baum's sister ever married?" Mr. Jones asked in funereal
accents.
"Sure she was married," Mosha answered. "She was married to Sam Gershon.
He works for years by Richter as a cutter. Sam is dead too."
"Did they ever have any children?" Mr. Jones inquired.
"One boy they had," Uncle Mosha said. "Shall I ever forget it? What a
beautiful boy that was, Mr. Feldman--a regular picture! Mrs. Gershon
thinks a whole lot of that boy, too, I bet yer."
"Never mind the trimmings, Kronberg," Feldman broke in. "Is the boy
alive?"
"That's what we're anxious to know," Mr. Jones interrupted. "My company
had ascertained that there was one son, but we couldn't find out if he
were dead or alive."
"If the boy was alive Mrs. Gershon would be alive too," Mosha said.
"Mrs. Gershon died on account of that boy. What a lovely boy that was! I
can see him now--the way he looked. He had eyes black like coal, and
a----"
Here Uncle Mosha stopped short. His jaw dropped and his fishy gray eyes
seemed to start from his head as he gazed at the door. It stood ajar
some six inches and exposed the features of a person impatient to the
point of frenzy.
"Ex-cuse me, Mr. Feldman!" said the intruder; "I may be a Rube from
Texas, y'understand, but I got my feelings too, and unless you come in
here right away and close the matter up me and my partner would go and
get our agreement fixed up somewhere else again."
"I'll be with you in just one moment, Mr. Gershon," Feldman replied.
"Gershon?" Uncle Mosha muttered. "Gershon!"
He rose to his feet and tottered across the room toward the doorway, but
at the threshold his strength failed him and he fell headlong to the
floor.
In the scene of confusion that followed only Henry D. Feldman remained
calm. He touched the electric button on his desk.
"Go down to the Algonquin Building and fetch a doctor," he said to the
office-boy who responded, "and on your way out see if we have any
blank petitions for administration in the Surrogate's Court. If we
haven't, buy a couple on your way back. The old man may not pull
through."
When Uncle Mosha's eyes opened in consciousness of his surroundings they
rested on Max Gershon, who bent over the old man as anxiously as did
either of his nephews.
"Max Gershon, ain't it?" Uncle Mosha asked feebly.
Gershon nodded.
"You shouldn't try to talk," he said.
"I'm all right," Uncle Mosha replied. "I need only a cup coffee. If
Aaron would let me got it before I come here this wouldn't never of
happened."
Aaron recognized the justice of his uncle's criticism by personally
seeking a nearby restaurant, and after an interval of ten minutes,
during which Abe and Morris took turns with Max and Alex in fanning the
patient, he returned with a pot of steaming coffee. Uncle Mosha drank
three cups in rapid succession and heaved a great sigh.
"You ain't got maybe a cigar about you, Max?" he said.
"Smoke this, Uncle Mosha," Alex Kronberg cried, pulling a large satiny
invincible from his waistcoat pocket and thrusting it at his uncle. For
one hesitating minute the old man looked from Alex to the cigar, but at
last its glossy perfection overcame his scruples.
"Much obliged, Alex," he said.
"That's all right," Alex mumbled as he struck a match. "How do you feel
now, uncle?"
"First rate," Uncle Mosha replied as he blew out great clouds of smoke;
"although I ought to feel a whole lot worse, Alex, when I see Maxie
Gershon here. Twenty-five years ago I seen him last and he looks the
same fat-faced feller with the black eyes. Only to think he now comes
back and takes away half my house from me."
"I ain't come back to do no such thing!" Max cried. "I could assure you,
Mr. Kronberg, although me and Alex Kronberg is going as partners
together, I never knew until I seen you here that you was any relation
of his. As for your house, Mr. Kronberg, I don't know nothing about it
at all."
"Don't you?" Uncle Mosha exclaimed. "Well, I'll tell you. It's like
this."
"_Stigun!_" Aaron hissed. "Don't open your mouth, Uncle Mosha."
"What d'ye mean, don't open my mouth?" Uncle Mosha retorted. "D'ye think
I'm a crook? If I got a house which it don't belong to me at all, then I
don't want it."
He turned his back on Aaron and straightway he narrated the full
circumstances surrounding his purchase of the Madison Street house.
"Certainly I ain't no lawyer nor nothing," he continued, "but when old
Max Baum died you was due to get just as much as your Uncle Nathan out
of his estate, and if Nathan Baum swindled me out of my money by
claiming he owns the whole thing that couldn't give me no right to your
share, ain't it?"
Max nodded.
"Then what ain't mine I don't want at all," Uncle Mosha continued; "and
so, Maxie, you and me gives Leon Sammet here a deed of the house and
Leon pays us the balance of eight thousand dollars. Out of that you get
four thousand three hundred and seventy-five dollars, because me, I
already got seven hundred and fifty dollars. Are you agreeable to fix it
that way, Sammet?"
Leon looked at Aaron Kronberg, who was gulping convulsively in an effort
to express adequately all he felt. At length he commenced to address his
uncle in husky tones.
"You cut-throat!" he croaked. "You robber, you! You shed my blood! Give
me back my seven hundred and fifty dollars."
"Your seven hundred and fifty!" Uncle Mosha exclaimed.
"That's what I said," Aaron went on. His voice rose to a hoarse scream
as he proceeded. "Did you think any one else would give forty-three
thousand dollars for that dawg-house but me? Sammet ain't got nothing to
do with it; he's only a dummy."
"So!" Leon Sammet said bitterly. "I am only a dummy, am I?"
"Wait _one_ minute!" Uncle Mosha cried. "Do you mean to told me, Mr.
Sammet, that you was buying this here house for Aaron?"
"Well, that's about the size of it," Leon admitted.
"Then what are you kicking about?" Uncle Mosha said. "You are a dummy."
Throughout the moving scenes of that entire afternoon Leon had acted the
part of disinterested onlooker to the point of lethargy, but now he
fairly glared at Uncle Mosha.
"I don't got to stay here to be called names," he said.
"My trouble's what you got to stay here for," Uncle Mosha retorted.
"Yes, boys; what d'ye think for a highwayman like that Aaron Kronberg?"
Aaron blushed a fiery red.
"Come on, Leon," he said. "Let's get out of this."
"Hold on!" Max Gershon shouted. "Don't you do nothing of the kind,
Sammet. Me and Mr. Mosha Kronberg we own this here house together, and
he made a contract with you to sell you this here house which I stand
by. Do you want to take it _oder_ not? Because if not, we would keep
your seven hundred and fifty dollars."
Leon Sammet emitted a huge guffaw.
"That worries me a whole lot," he replied. "As Aaron just told you, the
seven hundred and fifty belongs to him."
"Very true," Feldman interrupted, "but it was you who engaged me to
examine the title, Mr. Sammet, and my fees and disbursements in this
matter amount to five hundred dollars."
Leon Sammet sat down again.
"Come on, Leon," Aaron cried. "What are you waiting for?"
"Do you mean to told me, Mr. Feldman, I owe you five hundred dollars?"
Leon asked.
"Five hundred and eight dollars and forty-two cents to be exact," said
Feldman, crunching a slip of paper.
"Then all I got to say is," Leon declared, "I got here a certified check
for eight thousand dollars which Aaron Kronberg gives me, and I would
sure hold it until he secures me against your bill."
"Say, lookyhere, boys," Alex Kronberg said at length, "I've been
listening to all this here Megillah and I ain't said a word nor nothing.
But I'll tell you what I'll do. It's a cinch that Uncle Mosha won't go
to live with Aaron now, so I'll take him to live with me."
"I am agreeable," said Uncle Mosha.
"Furthermore," Alex continued, "Uncle Mosha and Max will keep the house.
I will also pay Mr. Feldman his five hundred dollars and take it out of
the seven hundred and fifty which Aaron paid Uncle Mosha. The balance of
two hundred and fifty Aaron shall have back again."
"I am content," Uncle Mosha replied. "I don't want none of Aaron's
money; and you could take it from me, Alex, Aaron would never see none
of my money."
"And now, gentlemen, let us fix up this copartnership agreement," Max
Gershon said as Aaron Kronberg slunk out of the office, followed by Leon
Sammet. "Mr. Potash and Mr. Perlmutter have wasted pretty near the whole
afternoon here."
"That's all right," Abe said. "I don't consider we wasted any time. Many
a night I threw away four dollars taking a customer on the theayter yet,
when the show wasn't near so good as what we seen it this afternoon; and
the customer ain't bought no goods off me anyhow."
"Don't you worry yourself about that, Abe!" Max cried. "You got a couple
of customers at this show which they would buy goods from you so long as
we are in business, and don't you forget it. Ain't I right, Alex?"
Alex nodded.
"Come on, Uncle Mosha," he said. "Come inside with us and see this
through."
"I'll wait out here," Uncle Mosha replied. "I got enough excitement for
one afternoon."
He waited until Mr. Jones, of the title company, had packed up his
papers, and then after Henry D. Feldman had followed the others into the
adjoining room and had closed the door behind him, Uncle Mosha touched
the button on Feldman's desk.
"Go out and buy for me an evening paper," he said to the boy who
responded.
"Say," the boy replied, "there was a doctor waiting to see you for more
than half an hour."
"Tell him to wait a little longer yet," Mosha rejoined. "I may got to
have him after I am seeing the paper."
"He ain't here now," the boy said. "He went away and says you should
send him a check for five dollars."
"I hope he don't need the money for nothing particular," Uncle Mosha
commented; "on account he stands a good show to be disappointed. Hurry
up with the paper."
Ten minutes afterward the boy returned. He handed an evening paper to
Uncle Mosha, who hastily planted a pair of pince-nez on his broad, flat
nose and folded back the financial page.
"Now let's give a look," he murmured to himself as he glanced hastily at
the column marked "The Stock Market."
At the head of the list appeared the following item:
Sales Highest Lowest Closing Net Ch'g
45100 Amal. Ref. 46-5/8 38-1/2 38-1/8 --4-1/8
"Wiped again!" he muttered as he dropped the paper to the floor.
Half an hour later, when Alex and Max Gershon came out of the
adjoining room with the copartnership agreement duly executed, they
found Uncle Mosha calmly smoking the last of his cigar while he pondered
over the "News for Investors" column. The tabulated list of quotations
was not unnoticed by Max as he felt for another cigar to present to the
old man.
"Do you ever speculate in Wall Street, Mr. Kronberg?" he asked.
"Oncet upon a time I used to," Uncle Mosha replied, "but never no more,
Maxie. It's a game which you couldn't beat--take it from me, Maxie--not
if you was a hundred times so smart as Old Man Baum."
* * * * *
"Well, Abe," Morris Perlmutter remarked as they sat in their showroom
ten days after the events above noted, "I did mix up in Alex Kronberg's
family matters and, with all your croaking, what is the result? Alex has
got a good partner; Uncle Mosha has got a good home, and ourselves we
got a good order for three thousand dollars, which otherwise we wouldn't
got at all."
"What are you talking nonsense, Mawruss?" Abe said. "Things wouldn't
turned out the way they did if it wouldn't be I met Max Gershon in
Hammersmith's. That's what started it, Mawruss."
"Nothing of the kind, Abe," Morris retorted. "What started it, Abe, was
me when I went down to Madison Street and give Uncle Mosha that cigar,
Abe. I tell you, Abe, it's an old saying and a true one: Throw away a
loaf of bread in the water, y'understand, and sooner or later, Abe, it
would come home like chickens to roost."
CHAPTER FOUR
THE RAINCOAT KING
"The table is all right, Mawruss," Abe Potash remarked as he consulted
the timecard of the Long Island Railroad one hot July afternoon. "The
table is all right; I ain't kicking about the table, y'understand, but
the class of people which they stay in the house, Mawruss, is pretty
_schlecht_. My Rosie couldn't get along with 'em at all."
"You don't tell me!" Morris replied. "Riesenberger's is got a big
reputation, Abe, and when me and Minnie stayed there two years ago there
was an elegant class of people stopping in the house. Would you believe
me, Abe, I tried to get up a game of auction pinocle there and I
couldn't do it! Nobody would play less than a dollar a hundred. I'm
surprised to hear the place is run down so."
"Oh, if the house's got a big reputation for auction pinocle, Mawruss,
then that's something else again! They play just as high as former
times. Sidney Koblin lost forty dollars last night. With my own eyes I
seen it, Mawruss; and his father looks on and don't say nothing."
"What does Max Koblin care for forty dollars, Abe?" Morris said. "The
feller's a millionaire. He's got ten pages of advertising in the _Cloak
and Suit Monthly Gazette_. I bet yer he spends more as forty dollars for
one page already. Wait; I'll show it to you."
Morris opened the green-covered periodical and displayed a full-page
"ad."
MAX KOBLIN
KING OF RAINCOATS
"KOBLINETTE," THE RAINSHED FABRIC
WEST 20TH STREET
NEW YORK
"Sure, I know, Mawruss," Abe commented. "He was always a big faker, that
feller. Twenty years since already I used to eat by Gifkin's on Canal
Street, and one day Max Koblin comes in and says to me, 'Abe,' he says,
'I want you should drink a bottle tchampanyer wine on me.' In them days
Max works for old man Zudosky selling boys' reefers. Raincoats was like
oitermobiles; no one had discovered 'em yet. 'What's the matter, Max?' I
says. 'Old man Zudosky given you a raise?' I says. 'Raise nothing,' Max
says. 'I got a boy up to my house.' 'So,' I says, 'just because you
got a boy, Max, I should got a headache and neglect my business?' I
says. 'An idee!' I says. 'Take the dollar and a quarter, Max,' I says,
'and put it in the savings bank, and every time you give the boy a penny
make him put it away with the other money,' I says; 'and the first thing
you know, Max,' I says, 'when the boy gets to be twenty years old he's
got anyhow a couple hundred dollars in the savings bank.'"
"And what did Max say?" Morris asked.
"He laughs at me, Mawruss," Abe replied. "He says to me, 'when that boy
gets to be twenty years old he wouldn't need to got to have a couple
hundred dollars in the savings bank. I could give him all the money he
wants it.'"
"Well, Max was right, ain't it?" Morris rejoined. "He could give the boy
all the money he wants."
"Money ain't everything what that boy wants, Mawruss," Abe said. "A good
_potch_ on the side of the head oncet in a while is what that boy wants.
So fresh that young feller is, Mawruss, you wouldn't believe it at all.
Actually he runs an oitermobile what Max bought it for him for fifteen
hundred dollars, a birthday present, besides the other big car which
Koblin got it. Max _oser_ runs oitermobiles at Sidney's age. Piece goods
on a pooshcart from old man Zudosky's to the sponger's was all the
oitermobiling Max done it. To-day they are putting on style yet.
Suckers!"
"Well, say, Abe," Morris protested, "what is it skin off your nose
supposing Max does buy oitermobiles for the boy? This is a free country,
Abe."
"Sure, I know, Mawruss," Abe declared, as he revealed the nub of the
whole matter; "and supposing my Rosie don't play poker, which, _Gott sei
dank_, she couldn't tell a king from an ace, what is that Mrs. Koblin's
business? She ain't supposed to know that, Mawruss, and yet she didn't
invite my Rosie to her poker party. Rosie wouldn't of gone anyhow,
Mawruss; but that ain't the point. Ain't my Rosie just as good as Mrs.
Klinger _oder_ Mrs. Elenbogen? Particularly Mrs. Elenbogen, which, three
years ago even, Kleiman & Elenbogen was still rated ten to fifteen
thousand, third credit. Only in the last two years they are coming up
so; and the way that Mrs. Elenbogen acts, you would think her husband
got a bank in Frankfort-am-Main when Rothschild was a new beginner yet.
Such fakers as them is too good for my Rosie, Mawruss. An idee!"
"What do you worry yourself about women's fighting, Abe?" Morris asked.
"Me worry myself, Mawruss!" Abe cried. "I much care for them people,
Mawruss. I am married to my Rosie now going on twenty-six years, will be
next May, and if I didn't know that she's got it on every one of them
cows in looks, in refinement and in every which way, Mawruss, then I
could worry, Mawruss. As it is, Mawruss, for my part they could play
poker till they are black in the face--what is it my business? I got
enough to attend to here in the store, Mawruss, without I should bother
myself."
"I bet yer!" Morris agreed fervently. "That reminds me, Abe, Shapolnik
is leaving us on Saturday."
"Well, Mawruss, I couldn't exactly break my heart about that,
y'understand?" Abe replied, "Skirt-cutters you could always get plenty
of 'em. What's the matter he ain't satisfied?"
"Nothing's the matter," Morris said. "He is simply going into the pants
business. His brother-in-law is got a small place downtown and he is
going as partners together with him. They ought to make a success of it
too, Abe, if nerve would got anything to do with it. The feller actually
wants me I should give him an introduction to Feder of the Kosciusko
Bank."
"Sure; why not?" Abe commented.
"Why not?" Morris repeated. "What would Feder think of us if we are
bringing a yokel like Shapolnik into his office? The feller ain't been
two years in the country yet."
"Don't knock a feller like Shapolnik just because he ain't putting on no
front nor throwing no bluffs, Mawruss," Abe retorted. "It's the faker
with the four-carat diamond pin which is doing his creditors, Mawruss,
but the yokel with the soup on his coat pays a hundred cents on the
dollar every time."
Half an hour later Abe conducted his retiring skirt-cutter to the Fifth
Avenue branch of the Kosciusko Bank, and as they approached the corner
of Nineteenth Street on their return they encountered Max Koblin, the
Raincoat King. He was about to enter the tonneau of an automobile, while
Sidney Koblin, the Heir Apparent, sat at the tiller arrayed in a silk
duster and goggles. Max grinned maliciously as he noted Abe's shabby,
bearded companion.
"Always entertaining the out-of-town trade, Abe?" he said.
Abe relaxed his features in what he intended for a smile, but afterward
he turned to Shapolnik with a scowl.
"Only one thing I got to tell you, Shapolnik," he declared. "Nowadays,
if a feller wants to make a success he must got to wear good clothes and
look like a _mensch_, y'understand? It never harms in business,
Shapolnik, that a feller should throw sometimes, oncet in a while, a
little bluff."
* * * * *
Between the ages of sixteen and twenty Sidney Koblin had so often tested
the maxim, "Boys will be boys," that Max Koblin's patience at length
became exhausted. "Do you mean to told me you ain't got one cent left
from that forty I gave you on Saturday?" Max asked on the Monday
morning following Shapolnik's resignation.
"Aw, what's biting you?" Sidney cried. "You sat behind me last night and
if it wouldn't been for you I wouldn't of played that last four-hundred
hand at all. Cost forty-eight dollars, that advice of yours."
This was a facer, to be sure, and Max paused before formulating a
rejoinder.
"In the first place, Sidney," he began, "you didn't got no right to lead
no trump. I told you before lots of times, if you got the extra ten, get
rid of your meld first. And in the second place, Sidney, I wouldn't
stand for your extravagance no longer. It's time you turned around and
attended to business."