Schulte leaned on his broom. "What's your hurry?" he called. "You can't get as good a location as this."
Hilda turned, but seemed to be listening from politeness rather than from interest.
"We can't pay more than forty," she answered, starting on her way again.
"I might let you have it for fifty," Schulte called after her, "if you didn't want any fixing up."
"It'd have to be fixed up," said Hilda, halting again. "But I don't care much for the neighborhood. There are too many delicatessens here now."
She went on more rapidly and the old man resumed his sweeping, muttering crossly into his long, white beard. As she came down the other side of the street half an hour later, she was watching Schulte from the corner of her eye. He was leaning on his broom, watching her. Seeing that she was going to pass without stopping he called to her and went slowly across the street. "You would make good tenants," he said. "I had to sue Bischoff. You can have it for forty—if you'll pay for the changes you want—you really won't want any."
"I was looking at it early this morning," replied Hilda. "There'll have to be at least two hundred dollars spent. But then I've my eye on another place."
"Forty's no rent at all," grumbled the old man, pulling at his whiskers.
"I can get a store round in Seventh Street for thirty-five and that includes three rooms at the back. You've got only one room at the back."
"There's a kitchen, too," said Schulte.