Ferdy turned and appealed to B. Rashkin.

“Ain’t them fine words to hear from my own brother-in-law?” he said.

“Nobody compels you to stay here and listen to ’em, Rothschild,” Abe interrupted.  “And, anyhow, Rothschild, you could make it more money if instead you stayed here you would go downtown to Henry D. Feldman’s office and sue this here Rashkin in the courts for your commission.  I was telling Feldman all about it this morning, and he says you got it a good case.”

“Rothschild,” Rashkin cried pleadingly, “where are you going?”

“You shouldn’t talk to me,” Rothschild answered.  “Potash is right.  I brought this here Marks to you and he was ready and willing to purchase at your terms, and so, therefore, you owe me a commission of four hundred and sixty-five dollars.”

The next moment he banged the door behind him and five minutes later he was followed by B. Rashkin, who had filled that short space of time with an exhaustive and profane denunciation of Potash & Perlmutter, individually and as copartners.

Five days afterward Morris examined the list of real-estate conveyances in the morning paper, after the fashion of the reformed race-track gambler who occasionally consults the past performances of the day’s entries.

He handed the paper to Abe and pointed his finger to the following item: 

     264th St. 2044 East 37.6 x 100.10; Baruch Rashkin to the Royal
     Piccadilly Realty Co. (mtg $33,000), $100.

“That’s only a fake,” Abe said.  “I seen in the paper yesterday that Rashkin incorporated the Royal Piccadilly Realty Company with his wife, Goldie Rashkin, as president; and I guess he done it because he got scared that Rothschild would get a judgment against him.  And so he transfers the house to the corporation.”

“But if he does that, Abe,” Morris cried gleefully, “Ferdy Rothschild would never collect on that judgment, because that house is all the property Rashkin’s got.”

“I hope you don’t feel bad about it, Mawruss,” Abe said.

“I bet yer I feel terrible, Abe,” Morris said ironically.  “But why did Rashkin call it the Royal Piccadilly Realty Company, Abe?”

“For the sake of old times yet,” Abe answered.  “I hear it from Sol Klinger that before Rashkin busted up in the waist business he used to make up a garment called the Royal Piccadilly.”

“Is that so?” Morris commented.  “I never heard he busted up in the waist business, Abe.  Why couldn’t he make a go of it, Abe?”

“Well, Mawruss, it was the same trouble with him like with some other people, I know,” Abe replied significantly.  “He was a good manufacturer but a poor salesman; and you know as well as I do, Mawruss, any fool could make up an article, Mawruss, but it takes a feller with judgment to sell it.”

CHAPTER XVII

“Did the sponger send up them doctors yet?” said Morris with a far-away look in his bloodshot eyes, as he entered his place of business at half past seven one morning in March.