alesman would got ever so much a crazy contract,
understand me, it allows the salesman he should sit all the time doing
nothing in the showroom without we got a right to fire him?"

"Well," Flaxberg replied calmly, "it gives him the privilege to go out
to lunch once in a while."

He pulled down his waistcoat with exaggerated care and turned on his
heel.

"So I would be back in an hour," he concluded; "and if any customers
come in and ask for me tell 'em to take a seat till I am coming back."

The two partners watched him until he put on his hat and coat in the
rear of the showroom and then Polatkin rose to his feet.

"Flaxberg," he cried, "wait a minute!"

Flaxberg returned to the office and nonchalantly lit a cigarette.

"Listen here to me, Flaxberg," Polatkin began. "Take from us a hundred
and fifty dollars and quit!"

Flaxberg continued the operation of lighting his cigarette and blew a
great cloud of smoke before replying.

"What for a piker do you think I am anyhow?" he asked.

"What d'ye mean--piker?" Polatkin said. "A hundred and fifty ain't to be
sneezed at, Flaxberg."

"Ain't it?" Flaxberg retorted. "Well, with me, I got a more delicate
nose as most people, Mr. Polatkin. I sneeze at everything under five
hundred dollars--and that's all there is to it."

Once more he turned on his heel and walked out of the office; but this
time his progress toward the stairs was more deliberate, for, despite
his defiant attitude, Flaxberg's finances were at low ebb owing to a
marked reversal of form exhibited the previous day in the third race at
New Orleans. Moreover, he felt confident that a judicious investment of
a hundred and fifty dollars would net him that very afternoon at least
five hundred dollars, if any reliance were to be placed on the selection
of Merlando, the eminent sporting writer of the _Morning Wireless_.

Consequently he afforded every opportunity for Marcus to call him back,
and he even paused at the factory door and applied a lighted match to
his already burning cigarette. The expected summons failed, however,
and instead he was nearly precipitated to the foot of the stairs by no
less a person than Elkan Lubliner.

"Excuse me, Mr. Flaxberg," Elkan said. "I ain't seen you at all."

Flaxberg turned suddenly, but at the sight of Elkan his anger evaporated
as he recalled a piece of gossip retailed by Sam Markulies, the shipping
clerk, to the effect that, despite his eighteen years, Elkan had