I don't got to ring up Mr.
Flugel to tell you the same thing, so you know what you could do."

"Sure I know what I could do," Elkan continued. "I could either do
business like a business man or do business like a muzhik, Mr. Stout.
_Aber_ this ain't _Russland_, Mr. Stout--this is America; and if I got
to run round wiping people's shoes to sell goods, then I don't want to
do it at all."

J. Kamin took a cigar out of his mouth and spat vigorously.

"You're dead right, Elkan," he said. "Go ahead and close the contract
and I assure you you wouldn't regret it."

Elkan's eyes blazed and he turned on Kamin.

"You assure me!" he said. "Who in thunder are you? Do you think I'm
looking for your business now, Kamin? Why, if you was worth your salt as
a merchant, understand me, instead you would be fooling away your time
trying to make a share of a commission, which the most you would get out
of it is a hundred dollars, y'understand, you would be attending to your
business buying your spring line. You are wasting two whole days on this
deal, Kamin; and if two business days out of your spring buying is only
worth a hundred dollars to you, Kamin, go ahead and get your goods
somewheres else than in our store. I don't need to be Dun or Bradstreet
to get a line on you, Kamin--and don't you forget it!"

At this juncture a faint cough localized Joel Ribnik, who had remained
with Julius Tarnowitz in the obscurity cast by several bound volumes of
digests and reports.

"Seemingly, Mr. Polatkin," he said, "you are a millionaire concern, the
way your partner talks! Might you don't need our business, neither,
maybe?"

Polatkin was busy checking the ravages made upon his linen by the
perspiration that literally streamed down his face and neck; but
Scheikowitz, who had listened open-mouthed to Elkan's pronunciamento,
straightened up in his chair and his face grew set with determination.

"We ain't millionaires, Mr. Ribnik," he said--"far from it; and we ain't
never going to be, understand me, if we got to buy eighteen-thousand
dollar houses for every bill of goods we sell to _Schnorrers_ and
deadbeats!"

"Scheikowitz!" Polatkin pleaded.

"Never mind, Polatkin," Scheikowitz declared. "The boy is right,
Polatkin; and if we are making our living in America we got to act like
Americans--not peasants. So, go ahead, Stout. Telephone Flugel and tell
him from me that if he wants to take it that way he should do so; and
you, too, Stout--and