“I see their accounts at the bank. I know what their turn-over is; I know yours. You’re not in it.”
“But they lose their cargo—the ship goes down.”
“But they get the insurance, and send forward new orders and make arrangements with us for the consignors to draw on them. Why, they’re running rings round you.”
“Vell, how can I help it? My mail never come—I don’t know vat my beobles are doing. But I send orders, too.”
“For how much?”
“Dat’s my pizz’ness.”
“And this is mine.” The clerk took a sheet of paper from his pocket.
“I don’t want to know your pizz’ness.”
“But you’d like to know C. and Co.’s.”
“Qvite right. But you know it—perhaps you know the Devil’s pizz’ness, too.”