“Forty-one five,” he said.

“Forty-one five,” the auctioneer repeated, and B. Rashkin turned to look at the bidder.  He started visibly as he recognized Abe, who bowed coldly.

“Why, hallo, Mr. Potash,” Rashkin exclaimed.  “I didn’t know you was in the market for property.”

“Why not?” Abe said.

“Well, on account you got a partner who——­”

“You don’t got to rub it in, Mr. Rashkin,” Abe interrupted.  “If my partner did know a good thing when he seen it, Mr. Rashkin, I don’t need to be reminded of it.”

“A good thing!” Rashkin said in puzzled accents.  “Why, I ain’t——­”

He stopped in time and forced himself to smile amiably.

“Yes, Mr. Rashkin,” Abe went on, as he imperceptibly edged away from the crowd.  “Would you believe it, that feller tells me this morning he’s got already a fine offer for the house?”

“You don’t tell me,” Rashkin said as they approached one of the salesroom doors.  He too was edging away from the crowd and congratulated himself that Abe had made no further bid.  “I’m glad he should get it.  For mein part, Mr. Potash, I would be glad to sell my house, too.”

Here he made a rapid mental calculation and arrived approximately at the price that would yield Morris a profit.

“I had myself an offer of forty-six seven-fifty for my house, Mr. Potash,” he hazarded.

Abe was ostentatiously surprised.

“So!” he said, with an elaborate assumption of recovering his composure.

“Yes, Mr. Potash,” Rashkin went on.  He was beginning to feel that the figure was too low.  “That’s the offer I received and I wouldn’t take a cent less than forty-eight.”

“Let me see,” Abe mused, as they paused in front of a bakery and lunchroom a few doors down the street.  “You got a first mortgage thirty-three thousand dollars, and that would give you a pretty big equity there, Mr. Rashkin.”

“Wouldn’t you come inside and take maybe a cup of coffee, Mr. Potash?” Rashkin suggested.

“I shouldn’t mind if I will,” Abe said; and they entered the bakery together.  “Would you want all cash above the mortgage, Mr. Rashkin?”

“Just now, Mr. Potash,” Rashkin replied, “I want a little something to eat.  Give me a piece of stollen and a cup of coffee.”

“Milk separate?” the waitress asked.

B. Rashkin nodded haughtily and then turned to Abe.

“What will you have, Mr. Potash?” he asked.

“Give me also a cup of coffee and a tongue sandwich,” he announced to the waitress.

“White or rye bread?” said the waitress.

“Rye bread,” Abe replied.

“We ain’t got no rye bread; I could give you a roll sandwich,” she declared solemnly.

“All right, give me a roll tongue sandwich,” Abe concluded, and once more addressed B. Rashkin.

“Of course you would take back a second mortgage, Mr. Rashkin,” he said.