eal to a
credit-harried mind like Abe's. "Oh, well," he said with a sigh, leading
the way to the rack of Empire gowns in the rear of the store, "if I must
I suppose I must."

He selected the smallest gown in stock and handed it to her.

"If you can get into that by your own self you can have it for two
dollars," he said, pocketing the crumpled bill. "I don't button up
nothing for nobody."

He gathered up the mail from the letter-box and carried it to the
show-room. There was a generous pile of correspondence, and the very
first letter that came to his hand bore the legend, "The Paris. Cloaks,
Suits and Millinery. M. Garfunkel, Prop." Abe mumbled to himself as he
tore it open.

"I bet yer he claims a shortage in delivery, when we ain't even shipped
him the goods yet," he said, and commenced to read the letter; "I bet
yer he----"

He froze into horrified silence as his protruding eyes took in the
import of M. Garfunkel's note. Then he jumped from his chair and ran
into the store, where the new retail customer was primping in front of
the mirror.

"Out," he yelled, "out of my store."

She turned from the fascinating picture in the looking-glass to behold
the enraged Abe brandishing the letter like a missile, and with one
terrified shriek she made for the door and dashed wildly toward the
corner.

Morris was smoking an after-breakfast cigar as he strolled leisurely
from the subway, and when he turned into White Street Abe was still
standing on the doorstep.

"What's the matter?" Morris asked.

"Matter!" Abe cried. "Matter! _Nothing's_ the matter. Everything's fine
and dandy. Just look at that letter, Mawruss. That's all."

Morris took the proffered note and opened it at once.

"Gents," it read. "Your Mr. Perlmutter sold us them plum-color Empires
this morning, and he said they was all the thing on Fifth Avenue. Now,
gents, we sell to the First Avenue trade, like what was in your store
this afternoon when our Mr. Garfunkel called, and our Mr. Garfunkel seen
enough already. Please cancel the order. Your Mr. Perlmutter will
understand. Truly yours, The Paris. M. Garfunkel, Prop."

M. Garfunkel lived in a stylish apartment on One Hundred and
Eighteenth Street. His family consisted of himself, Mrs. Garfunkel,
three children and a Lithuanian maid named Anna, and it was a source of
wonder to the neighbors that a girl so slight in frame could perform the
menial duties of so large a household. She cooked, washed an