Part 33 (1/2)

”You got it right, Mawruss,” Abe said. ”It was a genu-ine Amati.”

”For a hundred and twenty-five dollars expenses you are getting an order for seven hundred and fifty dollars, Abe,” Morris said relentlessly; ”and some fellers would throw it up to their partners for months together yet.”

”It was a genu-ine Amati, Mawruss,” Abe repeated for the third time, ”and for a genu-ine Amati, Mawruss, a hundred and twenty-five dollars is no price at all.”

”Sure, I know, Abe,” Morris said bitterly; ”to you a hundred and twenty-five dollars is nothing at all. We are made of money, Abe, ain't it? What do you care you are spending a hundred and twenty-five dollars for a fiddle when for seventy-five dollars on Lenox Avenue and a Hundred and Sixteenth Street, with my own eyes I seen it, you could buy a square pianner with a stool and scarf yet, as good as new. If you want to _schenk_ the feller something, why didn't you told me? What for a present is a fiddle, Abe, when for half the money we could give him a pianner yet?”

Abe hung his head in embarra.s.sment.

”But Mawruss,” he said, ”it was a genu-ine Amati.”

For one brief moment Morris choked with rage.

”Genu-ine h.e.l.l!” he roared, and plunged away to the office.

For the remainder of the morning Abe went about his work in crestfallen silence, although Morris, after subjecting Geigermann's order to a little cost bookkeeping on the back of an envelope broke once more into a cheerful whistle.

”Well, Abe,” he said at twelve o'clock, ”what is _vorbei_ is _vorbei_.

It ain't no use crying over sour milk, so I am going out to lunch.”

”What d'ye mean, sour milk, Mawruss?” Abe retorted. ”The sour milk is all on your side, Mawruss, because I am telling you it was a genu-ine Amati.”

”All right, Abe,” Morris said, as he rang for the elevator; ”you told me that _schon_ twenty times already. I wouldn't give you two dollars for all them genu-ine fellers' fiddles in creation; and that's all there is to it.”

With this ultimatum he stepped into the elevator and five minutes afterward he sat at a table in Hammersmith's restaurant and beguiled with a dill pickle the interval between the giving and filling of his order. At the table next to him sat an animated group, of which Louis Kleiman was the centre.

”Yes, sirree, sir!” Louis declared, in defiance of the law of scandal and libel; ”six months I would give the feller at the outside. A feller couldn't attend to business if he would set up till all hours of the night playing fiddle with that lowlife, Rabiner. That ain't all yet, neither! Yesterday he pays for a fiddle three thousand dollars.”

”For a fiddle three thousand dollars!” cried one of the group, and the good half of a dill pickle fell from Morris's limp grasp.

”That's what I said,” Louis continued; ”for three thousand dollars yet he is buying a fiddle. With my own eyes I seen it in the paper this morning; and when a feller puts three thousand dollars into a fiddle, y'understand, he could kiss himself good-by with his business.”

At this juncture Morris beckoned to the waiter.

”Say,” he said hoa.r.s.ely, ”never mind that roast spring lamb and stuffed tomatoes. Bring me instead a rye-bread tongue sandwich and a cup coffee.”

After the waiter had gone Morris settled back in his chair and listened once more to the conversation at the next table.

”All right; then I'm a liar,” he heard Louis say. ”I tell you I got the paper in my overcoat pocket right now.”

Louis rose from his seat and securing the morning paper from his overcoat he read aloud the following item:

PAYS HEAVILY FOR AMATI VIOLIN

Mrs. Helene Karanyi, widow of the celebrated violinist, Bela Karanyi, has sold her husband's favourite Amati at a price said to be over three thousand dollars. The purchaser is Felix Geigermann, who said yesterday that the violin had been in his possession for some time, and that there was no doubt of its authenticity. It was presented to Karanyi by the late Prince Ludovic Esterhazy, whose collection of Cremona violins, now preserved by his son, is said to be the finest in the world. Mr. Geigermann is the well-known Harlem dry-goods merchant.

Louis Kleiman folded the paper and laid it on the table.

”That's the way it goes, boys,” he said in heightened tones, for by this time he had caught sight of Morris. ”A new beginner comes to you and you give him a little line of credit, y'understand, and pretty soon he is buying more and more goods till he gets to be a big _macher_ like Felix Geigermann. Then either one of two things happens to you: Either he begins to think you are too small for him and he turns around and buys goods from some other sucker, y'understand, _oder_ he goes to work and throws away his money left and right on oitermobiles _oder_ fiddles, and sooner or later he busts up on you; and that's the way it goes.”

”You shouldn't worry yourself, Kleiman,” Morris cried, turning around in his chair. ”Felix Geigermann ain't going to fail just yet a while.”