Abe and Mawruss Part 60

"What are you talking about Sol Klinger?" Abe demanded.

Thereupon Morris related to Abe the circ.u.mstances surrounding Sol Klinger's purchase of the coffee percolator, and when he concluded Abe nodded slowly.

"So that highwayman is b.u.t.ting in too," he commented. "How much did you say he is paying for that samovar, Mawruss?"

Morris closed his eyes as though he were making a conscientious effort to remember the exact amount.

"Thirty dollars," he announced at last.

"What!" Abe cried. "You stood there and let Sol Klinger buy for thirty dollars a present and we ourselves only spend ten? What for a piker are you anyway, Mawruss?"

"What do you mean, what for a piker am I?" Morris said indignantly. "You are talking me black in the face on account I am spending ten dollars and now you are kicking I didn't spend thirty."

"Did you tell me before that Sol Klinger buys a present?" Abe asked.

"And furthermore, Mawruss, this wouldn't be the first time we are spending money to get business. Couldn't we afford to lay out thirty dollars if we want to?"

"But, Abe----" Morris began.

"But nothing!" Abe roared. "Why should you get all of a sudden so _sparsam mit_ our money, Mawruss? You talk like we would be new beginners on East Broadway already."

"But, Abe----" Morris protested again.

"'S enough, Mawruss," Abe interrupted. "I heard enough from you already.

Only one thing I got to tell you: if we lose a chance of getting some business from a lady which you could really say I know her well enough that it's a shame we ain't sold her nothing already even, don't blame me. That's all I got to say."

He walked away to the cutting room, while Morris sat down in the nearest chair, dazed to the point of temporary aphasia. For five minutes he sat still, endeavouring to trace the intricacies of a discussion that had put him so decisively in the wrong, and he was still pondering the matter when the elevator door opened and B. Gurin alighted.

"How do you do, Mr. Perlmutter?" Gurin cried.

Morris grunted inarticulately and made no attempt to take his visitor's proffered hand.

"Did you got any news for me?" Gurin asked.

Morris rose to his feet.

"Yes, I got some news for you," he said. "I got news for you that Mrs.

Gladstein is engaged to be married to a feller by the name Asimof."

He looked absently at a sample rack upon which reposed the very newspaper that contained the advertis.e.m.e.nt.

"Here it is," he continued, as he seized the paper. "You could see for yourself."

He handed the advertis.e.m.e.nt to Gurin, who read it over unmoved.

"Well, I must tell you the honest truth, Mr. Perlmutter," he said. "I couldn't say I am sorry." And he smiled amiably.

As Morris gazed at the fas.h.i.+on-plate features and the fas.h.i.+on-plate apparel of his visitor, he entirely forgot his optimistic scheme of supplanting Asimof with Gurin and he grew suddenly livid with a fierce rage.

"You ain't, ain't you?" he bellowed. "Well, you ought to be, because so sure as you are standing there, comes Monday morning and we don't get a check from you, we would close you up sure, y'understand."

"Now, lookyhere, Mr. Perlmutter--" Gurin began, but the reaction set up by Morris's encounter with his partner had begun to have its effect and he seized Gurin by one padded shoulder.

"Out!" he roared. "Out of my place, you rotten, cheap dude, you!"

And two minutes later B. Gurin fled wildly down the stairs, the newspaper still clutched in his hand.

Although Leon Sammet had at first been actuated by motives of a somewhat sordid nature in his negotiation of Mrs. Gladstein's betrothal, his subsequent behaviour was tempered by the traditional hospitality of his race. As for his mother, Mrs. Leah Sammet, she entered upon the preparations for the reception with an ardour that could not have been exceeded had Mrs. Gladstein been her own daughter. Thus, when Sunday afternoon arrived, Mrs. Sammet's house on One Hundred and Eighteenth Street presented an appearance of unusual festivity. The long, narrow parlor had been liberally draped with smilax and sparingly decorated with ex-table-d'hote roses, until it resembled the mortuary chapel of a Mulberry Street undertaker; and this effect was, if anything, heightened by four dozen camp-chairs that had been procured from the s.e.xton of Mrs.

Sammet's place of wors.h.i.+p.

A fine odour of cooking ascended from the bas.e.m.e.nt kitchen, and when Jacob Asimof had entered the front door at the behest of a coloured man with white gloves he sniffed the fragrant atmosphere of the lobby like a c.o.o.n dog at the base of a hollow tree.

"Am I the first here?" he asked Barney Sammet, the junior partner of Sammet Brothers, who had been detailed by his elder brother to receive the arriving guests, with strict injunction to keep an eye on the cigars.

Barney nodded gloomily.

"And ain't Mrs. Gladstein--I mean Sonia--come yet?" Jacob inquired.

"We just now got a telephone from her, the train from Bridgetown is late and she would be here in half an hour," Barney replied.

"That's a fine lookout," Asimof commented. "I bet yer by that time we would got a big crowd here."

The words were prophetic, for the shuffling of many feet on the front stoop preluded the arrival of Sol Klinger, Mrs. Klinger, Moe Klein and Mrs. Klein, who were immediately succeeded by the firm of Kleiman & Elenbogen, H. Rashkin, the coat-pad manufacturer, and Marks Pasinsky.

It must be conceded that Leon Sammet comported himself in a highly creditable manner, and he greeted his guests with a cordiality that embraced compet.i.tor and customer in one impartial, comprehensive smile.

"Why, how do you do, Mr. Klinger?" he exclaimed, and then he turned to Mrs. Leah Sammet, who stood beside him. "Mommer," he said, "I want you to know Mr. Klinger. Him and me has been compet.i.tors for twenty years already."

Mrs. Sammet nodded and smiled.

"For my part twenty years longer," she murmured, as she grasped Sol's hand.

"At a time like this, Mrs. Sammet," Sol rejoined, "it don't make no difference to me if a man is ever so much a compet.i.tor; what I claim is, let a sleeping dawg alone."

Mrs. Sammet indorsed the sentiment with another smile, and Sol with his retinue pa.s.sed on into the back parlour for the purpose of inspecting the presents. In the meantime other guests had preceded them, and among them was a man whose bearing and raiment proclaimed the creature of fas.h.i.+on. Not only were his trousers of the latest narrow design, but they were of sufficient modish brevity half to conceal and half to reveal a pair of gossamer silk socks, which in their turn were incased by patent-leather, low-cut shoes. The latter exhibited the square k.n.o.bbiness that only fas.h.i.+on artists can impart to the footgear of their models, while the broad laces that held them by the insecure hold of two eyelets were knotted in a bow that might have been appended to the collar of Mr. Paderewski himself.

"Ain't this Mr. Gurin?" Sol Klinger asked, and the creature of fas.h.i.+on nodded.

"You're a friend of the _Kahlo_, ain't it?" Klinger commented, employing the vernacular equivalent for the English word "bride."

"In a way," Gurin said evasively; "_aber_ the _Khosan_ I don't know at all."

Thus did Gurin imply that he was not acquainted with the future bridegroom, and Klinger volunteered the information that Asimof ran a dry-goods store in Dotyville, Pennsylvania.

"I sold him goods for years," he added, "and I guess I would continue to do so, even if that Ganef Sammet would make twenty engagement parties for 'em. Did you see the samovar I gave 'em?"

He pointed proudly to a silver-plated object, and Gurin glanced at it scornfully.