It was easy to find Bockstein and Eppner, and there could be no mistaking the prosperity of the firm. The indifference of the clerks to my presence, and the evident contempt with which an order for a hundred shares of something was being taken from an apologetic old gentleman were enough to assure me of that.
Bockstein and Eppner were together, evidently consulting over the business to be done. Bockstein was tall and gray-haired, with a stubby gray beard. Eppner was short and a little stooped, with a blue-black mustache, snapping blue-black eyes, and strong blue-black dots over his face where his beard struggled vainly against the devastating razor. Both were strongly marked with the shrewd, money-getting visage. I set forth my business.
“You wand to gif a larch order?” said Bockstein, looking over my memoranda. “Do you haf references?”
“Yes,” echoed Eppner. “References are customary, you know.” He spoke in a high-keyed voice that had irritating suggestions in it.
“Is there any reference better than cash?” I asked.
The partners looked at each other. “None,” they replied.
“How much will secure you on the order?”
They named a heavy margin, and the sum total took my heart into my mouth. How large a balance I could draw against I had not the faintest idea. Possibly this was a trap to throw me into jail as a common swindler attempting to pass worthless checks. But there was no time to hesitate. I drew a check for the amount, signed Henry Wilton's name, and tossed it over to Bockstein.
“All ridt,” said the senior partner. “Zhust talk it ofer vit Misder Eppner. He goes on der floor.”
I knew well enough what was wanted. My financial standing was to be tested by the head of the firm, while the junior partner kept me amused.