"You know very well why I ain't come back before, Mr. Polatkin," Gifkin
protested. "I was afraid for my life from that murderer Borrochson."

Philip scowled suddenly.

"My partner is right, Gifkin," he said. "Twenty dollars is too much."

"No, it ain't," Gifkin declared. "If I would be still working for you,
Mr. Scheikowitz, I would be getting more as twenty dollars by now. And
was it my fault you are firing me? By rights I should have sued you in
the courts yet."

"What d'ye mean sue us in the courts?" Philip exclaimed. He was growing
increasingly angry, but Gifkin heeded no warning.

"Because you are firing me just for saying a crook is a crook," Gifkin
replied, "and here lately you found out for yourself this here
Borrochson is nothing but a _Schwindler_--a _Ganef_."

"What are you talking about--a _Schwindler_?" Philip cried, now
thoroughly aroused. "Ain't you heard the boy says Borrochson is marrying
the landlord's widow? Could a man get married on wind, Gifkin?"

"Yow! he married the landlord's widow!" Gifkin said. "I bet yer that
crook gambles away the money; and, anyhow, could you believe anything
this here boy tells you, Mr. Scheikowitz?"

The question fell on deaf ears, however, for at the repetition of the
word crook Philip flung open the office door.

"Out of here," he roared, "before I kick you out."

Simultaneously Marcus grabbed the luckless Gifkin by the collar, and
just what occurred between the office and the stairs could be deduced
from the manner in which Marcus limped back to the office.

"_Gott sei Dank_ we are rid of the fellow," he said as he came in.

* * * * *

Although Philip Scheikowitz arrived at his place of business at
half-past seven the following morning he found that Marcus and Elkan
Lubliner had preceded him, for when he entered the showroom Marcus
approached with a broad grin on his face and pointed to the cutting
room, where stood Elkan Lubliner. In the boy's right hand was clutched a
pair of cutter's shears, and guided by chalked lines he was laboriously
slicing up a roll of sample paper.

"Ain't he a picture?" Marcus exclaimed.

"A picture!" Philip repeated. "What d'ye mean a picture?"

"Why, the way he stands there with them shears, Philip," Marcus replied.
"He's really what you could call a born cutter if ever there was one."

"A cutter!" Philip cried.

"Sure," Marcus went on. "It's never too soon for a young feller to
learn all sid