“I bet yer he claims a shortage in delivery, when we ain’t even shipped him the goods yet,” he said, and commenced to read the letter; “I bet yer he——­”

He froze into horrified silence as his protruding eyes took in the import of M. Garfunkel’s note.  Then he jumped from his chair and ran into the store, where the new retail customer was primping in front of the mirror.

“Out,” he yelled, “out of my store.”

She turned from the fascinating picture in the looking-glass to behold the enraged Abe brandishing the letter like a missile, and with one terrified shriek she made for the door and dashed wildly toward the corner.

Morris was smoking an after-breakfast cigar as he strolled leisurely from the subway, and when he turned into White Street Abe was still standing on the doorstep.

“What’s the matter?” Morris asked.

“Matter!” Abe cried.  “Matter! Nothing’s the matter.  Everything’s fine and dandy.  Just look at that letter, Mawruss.  That’s all.”

Morris took the proffered note and opened it at once.

“Gents,” it read.  “Your Mr. Perlmutter sold us them plum-color Empires this morning, and he said they was all the thing on Fifth Avenue.  Now, gents, we sell to the First Avenue trade, like what was in your store this afternoon when our Mr. Garfunkel called, and our Mr. Garfunkel seen enough already.  Please cancel the order.  Your Mr. Perlmutter will understand.  Truly yours, The Paris.  M. Garfunkel, Prop.”

M. Garfunkel lived in a stylish apartment on One Hundred and Eighteenth Street.  His family consisted of himself, Mrs. Garfunkel, three children and a Lithuanian maid named Anna, and it was a source of wonder to the neighbors that a girl so slight in frame could perform the menial duties of so large a household.  She cooked, washed and sewed for the entire family with such cheerfulness and application that Mrs. Garfunkel deemed her a treasure and left to her discretion almost every domestic detail.  Thus Anna always rose at six and immediately awakened Mr. Garfunkel, for M. Garfunkel’s breakfast was an immovable feast, scheduled for half-past six.

But on the morning after he had purchased the plum-color gowns from Potash & Perlmutter it was nearly eight before he awoke, and when he entered the dining-room, instead of the two fried eggs, the sausage and the coffee which usually greeted him, there were spread on the table only the evening papers, a brimming ash-tray and a torn envelope bearing the score of last night’s pinochle game.

He was about to return to the bedroom and report Anna’s disappearance when a key rattled in the hall door and Anna herself entered.  Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was blown about her face in unbecoming disorder.  Nevertheless, she smiled the triumphant smile of the well-dressed.

“Me late,” she said, but Garfunkel forgot all about his lost breakfast hour when he beheld the plum-color Empire.