“But how could we prove that to the company, Mr. Blaustein?” Abe protested.  “There ain’t enough left of them garments to show even what color they was.”

Blaustein rose to his feet.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “we’ll discuss that later.  The first thing we must do is to go up and see young Feinholz.  That Farmers and Ranchers’ Insurance Company is a pretty close corporation.  Louis Feinholz’s brother out in Arizona is the president, and they got such a board of directors that if they printed the names on the back of the policy it would look like the roster of an East Side free-burial society.  Also, this here Rudy Feinholz what acted as your broker is also general agent, adjuster and office manager for the Metropolitan District; and, taking it by and large, youse gentlemen is lucky you come to me instead of him to adjust this loss.”

Rudy Feinholz’s insurance business occupied what had once been the front parlor of a high-stoop brown-stone residence.  Similarly the basement dining-room had been converted into a delicatessen store, and the smoked meats, pickles, cheese and spices with which it was stocked provided rather a strange atmosphere for the Metropolitan Agency of the Farmers and Ranchers’ Insurance Company.  Moreover, the Italian barber who rented the quondam back parlor was given to practicing on the mandolin; and when Abe, Morris and J. Blaustein entered the Metropolitan Agency a very imperfect rendition of Santa Lucia came through the partition and made conversation difficult for the Metropolitan agent.

“What d’ye say if we all go round to the Longchamps,” he said, “and talk things over.”

“I’m agreeable,” Morris said, looking at his partner.

“Sure thing,” Blaustein replied.  “That delicatessen store smell is so thick around here that I’m getting ptomaine poisoning.”

“But,” Abe protested, “maybe Louis Feinholz don’t want us round there.  We ain’t on the best of terms with Louis.”

“That’s all right,” Rudy Feinholz said.  “I arranged with him to bring you round there.  Uncle Louis is a heavy stockholder in the Farmers and Ranchers’, and——­”

“S’enough!” Morris cried.  “I hear enough about the family history of this here Farmers and Ranchers.  It wouldn’t make no difference to me if your mother was the vice-president and your sister the secretary.  All I want is we should settle this thing up.”

“Well, come along, then,” Rudy cried, and the two brokers and their clients repaired to Feinholz’s store.  Abe and Morris entered not without trepidation, but Louis received them with unaffected amiability.

“Well, Mawruss,” he said, “that’s too bad you got a fire in your place.”

“We can stand it,” Morris replied.  “We was insured.”

Feinholz rejoined:  “Yes, you was insured by your loft, but you wasn’t insured by your freight elevator.”

“But by the rules of the Fire Insurance Exchange,” Blaustein interrupted, “when a policy reads——­”