“Well, Abe,” he said for the twentieth time, gazing proudly around him, “what’s the matter with them fixtures what we got it?  Huh?  Ain’t them fixtures got H. Rifkin skinned to death?”

Abe shook his head solemnly.

“Mind you, Mawruss,” he began, “I ain’t saying them fixtures what we got it ain’t good fixtures, y’understand; but they ain’t one, two, six with H. Rifkin’s fixtures.”

“That’s what you say, Abe,” Morris retorted, “but Flachsman says different.  I seen him at the lodge last night, and he tells me them fixtures what H. Rifkin got it was second quality, Abe.  Flachsman says they wouldn’t of stood being took down and put up again.  He says he wouldn’t sell them fixtures as second-hand to an East Broadway concern, without being afraid for a comeback.”

“Flachsman don’t know what he’s talking about,” Abe declared hotly.  “Them fixtures was A Number One.  I never seen nothing like ’em before or since.”

“Bluffs you are making it, Abe,” Morris replied.  “You seen them fixtures for ten minutes, maybe, Abe, and in such a short time you couldn’t tell nothing at all about ’em.”

“Couldn’t I, Mawruss?” Abe said.  “Well, them fixtures was the kind what you wouldn’t forget it if you seen ’em for only five minutes.  I bet yer I would know them anywhere, Mawruss, if I seen them again, and what we got it here from Flachsman is a weak imitation, Mawruss.  That’s all.”

At this juncture a customer entered, and for half an hour Morris busied himself displaying the line.  In the meantime Abe went out to lunch, and when he entered the building on his return a familiar, bulky figure preceded him into the doorway.

“Hallo!” Abe cried, and the bulky figure stopped and turned around.

“Hallo yourself!” he said.

“You don’t know me, Mr. Feigenbaum,” Abe went on.

“Why, how d’ye do, Mr. Potash?” Feigenbaum exclaimed.  “What brings you way uptown here?”

“We m——­” Abe commenced—­“that is to say, I come up here to see a party.  I bet yer we’re going to the same place, Mr. Feigenbaum.”

“Maybe,” Mr. Feigenbaum grunted.

“Sixth floor, hey?” Abe cried jocularly, slapping Mr. Feigenbaum on the shoulder.

Mr. Feigenbaum’s right eye assumed the glassy stare which was permanent in his left.

“What business is that from yours, Potash?” he asked.

“Excuse me, Mr. Feigenbaum,” Abe said with less jocularity, “I didn’t mean it no harm.”

Together they entered the elevator, and Abe created a diversion by handing Mr. Feigenbaum a large, black cigar with a wide red-and-gold band on it.  While Feigenbaum was murmuring his thanks the elevator man stopped the car at the fifth floor.

“Here we are!” Abe cried, and hustled out of the elevator ahead of Mr. Feigenbaum.  He opened the outer door of Potash & Perlmutter’s loft with such rapidity that there was no time for Feigenbaum to decipher the sign on its ground-glass panel, and the next moment they stood before the green-baize swinging doors.