“And what did he say?”

“He says he’s working by Sammet Brothers under a contract, Mawruss, what don’t expire for a year yet, and they’re holding up a quarter of his wages under the contract, which he is to forfeit if he don’t work it out.”

“Don’t you believe it, Abe,” Morris broke in.  “He’s standing out for more money.”

“Is he?” said Abe with some heat.  “Well, I seen the contract, Mawruss, so either I’m a liar or not, Mawruss, ain’t it?”

Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a customer, Ike Herzog, of the Bon Ton Credit Outfitting Company.

“Ah, Mr. Herzog!” Abe cried, rising to his feet and extending both hands in greeting.  “Glad to see you.  Ain’t it a fine weather?”

Mr. Herzog grunted in reply.

“Potash,” he said, “when I give you that order last week, I don’t know whether I didn’t buy a big lot of your style fifty-nine-ten, ain’t it?”

“Yes, you did,” said Abe.

“Well,” said Herzog, “I want to cancel that part of the order.”

“Cancel it!” Abe cried.  “Why, what’s the matter with them garments?  Ain’t the samples made up right?”

“Sure, they’re made up right,” said Herzog, “only I seen something what I like better.  It’s about the same style, only more attractive.  I mean Sammet Brothers’ style forty-one-fifty—­their new Arverne Sacque.”

“Mr. Herzog!” Abe cried.

Herzog raised a protesting palm.

“Now, Potash,” he said, “you know whatever I buy in staples you get the preference; but when anybody’s got a specialty like that Arverne Sacque, what’s the use of talking?”

He shook hands cordially.

“I’ll be around to see you in about a week,” he said, and the next moment the door closed behind him.

“Well, Mawruss, that settles it,” said Abe, putting on his hat.  “When we lose a good customer like Ike Herzog, I gets busy right away.”

“Where are you going, Abe?” Morris asked.

Abe struggled into his overcoat and seized his umbrella.

“Round to Sammet Brothers,” he replied.  “I’m going to get that young feller away from them if I got to pay ’em a thousand dollars to boot.”

Leon Sammet, head of the copartnership of Sammet Brothers, sat in the firm’s sample room and puffed gloomily at a Wheeling stogy.  His brother, Barney Sammet, stood beside him reading aloud from a letter which he held in his hand.

“‘Gents,’” he said, “’your shipment of the fourteenth instant to hand, and in reply will say we ain’t satisfied with nothing but style forty-one-fifty.  Our Miss Kenny is a perfect thirty-six, and she can’t breathe in them Empires style 3022, in sizes 36, 38 or 40.  What is the matter with you, anyway?  We are returning them via Eagle Dispatch.  We are yours truly, The Boston Store, Horowitz & Finkelbein, Proprietors.’”

“Yes, Barney,” Leon commented, “that’s a designer for you, that Louis Grossman.  His Arverne Sacques is all right, Barney, but the rest is nix.  He’s a one garment man.  Tell Miss Aaronstamm to bring in her book.  I want to send them Boston Store people a letter.”