“That’s too bad, Abe,” he said.  “Why don’t you see a doctor?”

Abe shook his head and was about to reply when the telephone bell rang.

“That’s Sol Klinger,” Morris exclaimed.  “He said he would let me know at ten o’clock what this Interstate Copper opened at.”

He darted for the telephone in the rear of the store, and when he returned his face was wreathed in smiles.

“It has come up to five already,” he cried.  “We make it twenty-five hundred dollars.”

While Morris was talking over the ’phone Abe had been trying to bring his courage to the sticking point, and the confession was on the very tip of his tongue when the news which Morris brought forced it back again.  He rose wearily to his feet.

“I guess you think we’re getting rich quick, Mawruss,” he said, and repaired to the bookkeeper’s desk in the firm’s private office.  For the next two hours and a half he dodged about, with one eye on Morris and the other on the rear entrance to the store.  He expected the silk to arrive at any moment, and he knew that when it did the jig would be up.  It was with a sigh of relief that he saw Morris go out to lunch at half-past twelve, and almost immediately afterward Hill, Arkwright & Thompson’s truckman arrived with the goods.  Abe superintended the disposal of the packing cases in the cutting-room, and he was engaged in opening them when Miss Cohen, the bookkeeper, entered.

“Mr. Potash,” she said, “Mr. Perlmutter wants to see you in the show-room.”

“Did he come back from lunch so soon?” Abe asked.

“He came in right after he went out,” she replied.  “I guess he must be sick.  He looks sick.”

Abe turned pale.

“I guess he found it out,” he said to himself as he descended the stairs and made for the show-room.  When he entered he found Morris seated in a chair with the first edition of an evening paper clutched in his hand.

“What’s the matter, Mawruss?” Abe said.

Morris gulped once or twice and made a feeble attempt to brandish the paper.

“Matter?” he croaked.  “Nothing’s the matter.  Only, we are out twenty-five hundred dollars.  That’s all.”

“No, we ain’t, Mawruss,” Abe protested.  “What we are out in one way we make in another.”

Morris sought to control himself, but his pent-up emotions gave themselves vent.

“We do, hey?” he roared.  “Well, maybe you think because I took your fool advice this oncet that I’ll do it again?”

He grew red in the face.

“Gambler!” he yelled.  “Fool!  You shed my blood!  What?  You want to ruin me!  Hey?”

Abe had expected a tirade, but nothing half as violent as this.

“Mawruss,” he said soothingly, “don’t take it so particular.”

He might as well have tried to stem Niagara with a shovel.

“Ain’t the cloak and suit business good enough for you?” Morris went on.  “Must you go throwing away money on stocks from stock exchanges?”