The Competitive Nephew - Glass Montague

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commission. Moreover, he had decided to refuse to consent to the transfer of the store lease from Zamp individually to the copartnership of Zamp & Meiselson, save at an increase in rental of ten dollars a month.

      "Very well, Zamp," he said. "Maybe the idee ain't mine; but just the same, I would be back here at two o'clock, and Meiselson comes along."

      With this ultimatum Shimko started off for Wasserbauer's Café, and at ten minutes to two he accompanied Meiselson down to Canal Street.

      "Yes, Meiselson," Shimko began, as they approached Zamp's store. "There's a feller which he ain't got no more sense as you have, and yet he is doing a big business anyhow."

      "What d'ye mean, no more sense as I got it?" Meiselson demanded. "Always up to now I got sense enough to make a living, and I ain't killed myself doing it, neither!"

      For the remainder of their journey to Zamp's store Shimko sulked in silence; but when at length they reached their destination he exclaimed aloud:

      "Did you ever see the like?" he cried. "The place is actually full up with customers!"

      Zamp's prediction had more than justified itself. When Shimko and Meiselson entered, he looked up absently as he handled the rolls of piece goods which he had purchased, for cash, only one hour previously. Moreover, his pockets overflowed with money, for every customer had paid a deposit of at least 25 per cent.

      "Good afternoon, Mr. Zamp," Shimko cried. "This is Mr. Meiselson, the gentleman which I am speaking to you about. He wants to go as partners together with you."

      Zamp ran his hand through his dishevelled hair. He was more than confused by his sudden accession of trade.

      "You got to excuse me, Mr. Shimko," he said, "I am very, very busy just now."

      Shimko winked furtively at Zamp.

      "Sure, I know," he said, "but when could we see you later to-day?"

      "You couldn't see me later to-day," Zamp replied. "I am going to work to-night getting out orders."

      "Natürlich," Shimko rejoined, "but couldn't you take a cup coffee with us a little later?"

      Zamp jumped nervously as the door opened to admit another customer. The two clerks, supplemented by a third salesman, who had been hired by telephone, were extolling the virtues of Zamp's wares in stentorian tones, and the atmosphere of the little store was fairly suffocating.

      "I couldn't think of it," Zamp answered, and turned to the newly arrived customer. "Well, sir," he cried, "what could I do for you?"

      "Say, lookyhere, Zamp," Shimko exploded angrily, "what is the matter with you? I am bringing you here a feller which he wants to go as partners together with you, and——"

      At this juncture Meiselson raised his right hand like a traffic policeman at a busy crossing.

      "One moment, Mr. Shimko," he interrupted. "You are saying that I am the feller which wants to go as partners together with Mr. Zamp?"

      "Sure!" Shimko said.

      "Well, all I got to say is this," Meiselson replied. "I ain't no horse. Some people which they got a couple thousand dollars to invest would like it they should go into a business like this, and kill themselves to death, Mr. Shimko, but me not!"

      He opened the store door and started for the street.

      "But, lookyhere, Meiselson!" Shimko cried in anguished tones.

      "Koosh, Mr. Shimko!" Meiselson said. "I am in the soap and perfumery business, Mr. Shimko, and I would stay in it, too!"

      Six months later Harry Zamp sat in Dachtel's Coffee House on Canal Street, and smoked a post-prandial cigar. A diamond pin sparkled in his neck-tie, and his well-cut clothing testified to his complete solvency.

      Indeed, a replica of the coat and vest hung in the window of his enlarged business premises on Canal Street, labelled "The Latest from the London Pickadillies," and he had sold, strictly for cash, more than a dozen of the same style during the last twenty-four hours. For the rush of trade which began on the day when he hired the "property" salesmen and cutters had not only continued but had actually increased; and it was therefore with the most pleasurable sensations that he recognized, at the next table, Isaac Meiselson, the unconscious cause of all his prosperity.

      "Excuse me," he began, "ain't your name Meiselson?"

      "My name is Mr. Meiselson," Isaac admitted. "This is Mr. Zamp, ain't it?"

      Zamp nodded.

      "You look pretty well, considering the way you are working in that clothing business of yours," Meiselson remarked.

      "Hard work never hurted me none," Zamp answered. "Are you still in the soap and perfumery business, Mr. Meiselson?"

      Meiselson shook his head.

      "No," he said, "I went out of the soap business when I got married last month."

      "Is that so?" Zamp commented. "And did you go into another business?"

      "Not yet," Meiselson replied, and then he smiled. "The fact is," he added in a burst of confidence, "my wife is a dressmaker."

       Table of Contents

      THE SORROWS OF SEIDEN

      "Say, lookyhere!" said Isaac Seiden, proprietor of the Sanspareil Waist Company, as he stood in the office of his factory on Greene Street; "what is the use your telling me it is when it ain't? My wife's mother never got a brother by the name Pesach."

      He was addressing Mrs. Miriam Saphir, who sat on the edge of the chair nursing her cheek with her left hand. Simultaneously she rocked to and fro and beat her forehead with her clenched fist, while at intervals she made inarticulate sounds through her nose significant of intense suffering.

      "I should drop dead in this chair if she didn't," she contended. "Why should I lie to you, Mr. Seiden? My own daughter, which I called her Bessie for this here Pesach Gubin, should never got a husband and my other children also, which one of 'em goes around on crutches right now, Mr. Seiden, on account she gets knocked down by a truck."

      "Well, why didn't she sue him in the courts yet?" Seiden asked. "From being knocked down by a truck many a rich feller got his first start in business already."

      "Her luck, Mr. Seiden!" Mrs. Saphir cried. "A greenhorn owns the truck which it even got a chattel mortgage on it. Such Schlemazel my family got it, Mr. Seiden! If it would be your Beckie, understand me, the least that happens is that a millionaire owns the truck and he settles out of court for ten thousand dollars yet. Some people, if they would be shot with a gun, the bullet is from gold and hits 'em in the pocket already—such luck they got it."

      "That ain't here nor there, Mrs. Saphir," Seiden declared. "Why should I got to give your Bessie a job, when already I got so many people hanging around my shop, half the time they are spending treading on their toes?"

      "Ai, tzuris!" Mrs. Saphir wailed. "My own husband's Uncle Pesach is from his wife a cousin and he asks me why! Who should people look to for help if it wouldn't be their family, Mr. Seiden? Should I go and beg from strangers?"

      Here Mrs. Saphir succumbed to a wave of self-pity, and she wept aloud.

      "Koosh!" Mr. Seiden bellowed. "What do you think I am running here—a cemetery? If you want to cry you should go out on the sidewalk."

      "Such hearts people got it," Mrs. Seiden sobbed, "like a piece from ice."

      "'S enough!" said Mr. Seiden. "I wasted enough time already. You took up pretty near my whole morning, Mrs. Saphir; so once and for all I am telling you you should send your Bessie to work as a learner Monday morning, and if she gets worth it I would pay her just the same wages like

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