“Sure not,” Abe agreed, dismissing the subject.  “So, I’ll call him Ike.  For two weeks he wouldn’t mind it.”

Morris shrugged.  “For my part, you can call him Andrew Carnegie,” he said; “only, let’s not stand here talking about it all day, Abe.  I see by the paper this morning that Marcus Bramson, from Syracuse, is at the Prince William Hotel, Abe, and you says you was going up to see him.  That’s your style, Abe:  an old-fashion feller like Marcus Bramson.  If you couldn’t sell him a bill of goods, Abe, you couldn’t sell nobody.  He ain’t no lady buyer, Abe.”

Abe glared indignantly at his partner.  “Well, Mawruss,” he said, “if you ain’t satisfied with the way what I sell goods you know what you can do.  I’ll do the inside work and you can go out on the road.  It’s a dawg’s life, Mawruss, any way you look at it; and maybe, Mawruss, you would have a good time taking buggy rides with lady buyers.  For my part, Mawruss, I got something better to do with my time.”

He seized his hat, still glaring at Morris, who remained quite unmoved by his partner’s indignation.

“I heard it what you tell me now several times before already, Abe,” he said; “and if you want it that Max Tuchman or Klinger & Klein or some of them other fellers should cop out a good customer of ours like Marcus Bramson, Abe, maybe you’ll hang around here a little longer.”

Abe retorted by banging the show-room door behind him, and as he disappeared into the street Morris indulged in a broad, triumphant grin.

When Abe returned an hour later he found Morris going over the monthly statements with Ralph Tuchman.  Morris looked up as Abe entered.

“What’s the matter, Abe?” he cried.  “You look worried.”

“Worried!” Abe replied.  “I ain’t worried, Mawruss.”

“Did you seen Marcus Bramson?” Morris asked.

“Sure I seen him,” said Abe; “he’s coming down here at half-past three o’clock this afternoon.  You needn’t trouble yourself about him, Mawruss.”

Abe hung up his hat, while Morris and Ralph Tuchman once more fell to the work of comparing the statements.

“Look a-here, Mawruss,” Abe said at length:  “who d’ye think I seen it up at the Prince William Hotel?”

“I ain’t no mind reader, Abe,” Morris replied.  “Who did you seen it?”

“Miss Atkinson, cloak buyer for the Emporium, Duluth,” Abe replied.  “That’s Moe Gerschel’s store.”

Morris stopped comparing the statements, while Ralph Tuchman continued his writing.

“She’s just come in from the West, Mawruss,” Abe went on.  “She ain’t registered yet when I was going out, and she won’t be in the Arrival of Buyers till to-morrow morning.”

“Did you speak to her?” Morris asked.

“Sure I spoke to her,” Abe said.  “I says good-morning, and she recognized me right away.  I asked after Moe, and she says he’s well; and I says if she comes down here for fall goods; and she says she ain’t going to talk no business for a couple of days, as it’s a long time already since she was in New York and she wants to look around her.  Then I says it’s a fine weather for driving just now.”