“We ain’t lost ’em yet, Abe,” Morris rejoined, and without taking off his coat he repaired to Wasserbauer’s Restaurant and Cafe for a belated lunch.  As he entered he encountered Frank Walsh, who had been congratulating himself at the bar.

“Hello, Morris,” he cried.  “I cut you out, didn’t I?”

“You cut me out?” Morris replied stiffly.  “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you don’t,” Walsh broke in heartily.  “I suppose you was hustling to the Grand Central Station just because you wanted to watch the engines.  Well, I won’t crow over you, Morris.  Better luck next time!”

His words fell on unheeding ears, for Morris was busily engaged in looking around him.  He sought features that might possibly belong to James Burke, but Frank seemed to be the only representative of the Emerald Isle present, and Morris proceeded to the restaurant in the rear.

“I suppose he turned him over to Klinger,” he said to himself, while from the vantage of his table he saw Frank Walsh buy cigars and pass out into the street in company with another drummer not of Irish extraction.

He finished his lunch without appetite, and when he reentered the store Abe walked forward to greet him.

“Well, Mawruss,” he said, “I seen Sol Klinger coming down the street a few minutes ago, so I kinder naturally just stood out on the sidewalk till he comes past, Mawruss.  I saw he ain’t looking any too pleased, so I asked him what’s the trouble; and he says, nothing, only that Frank Walsh, what they got it for a drummer, eats ’em up with expenses.  So I says, How so?  And he says, this here Walsh has a customer by the name of Burke come to town, and the first thing you know, he spends it three dollars for a cab for Burke, and five dollars for lunch for Burke, and also ten dollars for two tickets for a show for Burke, before this here Burke is in town two hours already.  Klinger looked pretty sore about it, Mawruss.”

“What show is he taking Burke to?” Morris asked.

“It ain’t a show exactly,” Abe replied hastily; “it’s a prize-fight.”

“A fight!” Morris cried.  “That’s an idea, ain’t it?—­to take a customer to a fight.”

“I know it, Mawruss,” Abe rejoined, “but you got to remember that the customer’s name is also Burke.  What for a show did you buy it tickets for?”

Morris blushed.  “Travvy-ayter,” he murmured.

“Travvy-ayter!” Abe replied.  “Why, that’s an opera, ain’t it?”

Morris nodded.  He had intended to combine business with pleasure by taking Burke to hear Tetrazzini.

“Well, you got your idees, too, Mawruss,” Abe continued; “and I don’t know that they’re much better as this here Walsh’s idees.”

“Ain’t they, Abe?” Morris replied.  “Well, maybe they ain’t, Abe.  But just because I got a loafer for a customer ain’t no reason why I should be a loafer myself, Abe.”

“Must you take a customer to a show, Mawruss?” Abe rejoined.  “Is there a law compelling it, Mawruss?”