Thus when Noblestone repaired to the office of Zudrowsky & Cohen at closing time that afternoon, he fairly outdid himself extolling Morris Perlmutter’s merits, and he presented so high colored a picture that Zudrowsky deprecated the business broker’s enthusiasm.

“Say, looky here, Noblestone,” he said, “enough’s enough.  All I want is a partner for my son-in-law which would got common sense and a little judgment.  That’s all.  I don’t expect no miracles, y’understand, and the way I understand it from you, this feller Morris Perlmutter is got a business head like Andrew Carnegie already and a shape like John Drew.”

“I never mentioned his name because I don’t know that feller at all,” Noblestone protested.  “But Perlmutter is a fine business man, Mr. Zudrowsky, and he’s a swell dresser, too.”

“A feller what goes to a bank looking for accommodations,” Zudrowsky replied, “naturally don’t put on his oldest clothes, y’understand, but anyhow, Noblestone, if you would be around here at half past twelve to-morrow, I will see that Harry gets here too, and we will go down to Wasserbauer’s and meet the feller.”

It was precisely one o’clock the following day when Morris Perlmutter seated himself at a table in the rear of Wasserbauer’s Cafe and Restaurant.

“Yes, sir, right away!” Louis, the waiter, cried, as he deposited a plate of dill pickles on the adjoining table, at which sat a stout middle-aged person with a napkin tucked in his neck.

“Koenigsberger Klops is good to-day, Mr. Potash,” Louis announced.

“Pushing the stickers, Louis, ain’t it?” the man at the next table said.  “You couldn’t get me to eat no chopped meat which customers left on their plates last week already.  I never believe in buying seconds, Louis.  Give me a piece of roast beef, well done, and a baked potato.”

“Right away, Mr. Potash,” Louis said, as he passed on to Perlmutter’s table.  “Now, sir, what could I do for you?”

“Me, I am waiting here for somebody,” Morris replied.  “Bring me a glass of water and we will give our order later.”

“Right away!” said Louis, and hustled off to fill Abe Potash’s order, whereat Abe selected a dill pickle to beguile the tedium of waiting.  He grasped it firmly between his thumb and finger, and neatly bisected it with his teeth.  Simultaneously the pickle squirted, and about a quarter of a pint of the acid juice struck Morris Perlmutter in the right eye.

“Excuse me,” Abe cried.  “Excuse me.”

“S’all right,” Morris replied.  “I seen what you was doing and I should of ordered an umbrella instead of a glass of water already.”

Abe laughed uproariously.

“Dill pickles is uncertain like Paris fashions,” he commented.  “You could never tell what they would do next.”

“I bet yer,” Morris replied.  “Last year people was buying silks like they was crazy, y’understand, and this year you would think silks was poison.  A buyer wouldn’t touch ’em at all, and that’s the way it goes.”