find out," Sam replied.

Then ensued a silence of several minutes during which Morris gazed
attentively at his customer.

"The fact is, Sam," he said at last, "you ain't got no head."

Sam nodded sadly.

"You're a fool, Sam," Morris went on in kindly accents; "and no matter
how hard a fool would work he is a poor man all his life."

Sam deemed it hardly worth while to acquiesce in this statement, but he
indorsed it unconsciously with a large tear, which stole put of the
corner of his eye and worked a clean groove down one travel-stained
cheek.

"Have a smoke, Sam," Morris added hastily as he thrust a cigar toward
his late customer. "Did you got your lunch yet? No? Come on out with me
now and we would have a little bite to eat."

He jumped to his feet and seized his hat.

"Nathan," he bawled to the shipping clerk, "tell Mr. Potash I am going
out with a customer and I'll be back when I am here."

* * * * *

Max Kirschner had reached the age of sixty without making a single enemy
save his stomach, which at length ungratefully rejected all the rich
favours that Max had bestowed on it so long and so generously. Indeed,
he was reduced to a diet of crackers and milk when Abe encountered him
in Hammersmith's restaurant that September morning.

"Hello, Max!" Abe cried. "When did you get back? I thought you was in
one of them--now--sanatoriums."

"A sanatorium is no place for a drummer to find a job, Abe," Max
replied.

"A good salesman like you could find a job anywhere without much
trouble, Max," Abe said cheerfully.

"That's what everybody says, Abe; meantime I'm loafing."

"It wouldn't be for long, Max," Abe rejoined as he cast a hungry eye
over Hammersmith's bill of fare. "How's that fillet de who's this, with
asparagrass tips and mushrooms?"

For a brief moment Max's eye gleamed and then grew dull again.

"It's fine to put the stomach out of business, Abe," Max said. "Take the
tip from one who has lost sixty pounds, ten customers, and a good job
all in six weeks--and order poached eggs on toast."

Abe compromised on boiled beef with horseradish sauce; and when he was
well into the noisy consumption of that simple dish he broached the
subject of Max's future plans.

"When d'ye think you'll go to work again, Max?" he asked.

Max shrugged expressively.

"I'm not a prophet, Abe; I'm a salesman," he said.

"Well, there ain't no particular hurry, Max. It ain't the same li