"Yes'm, and a bargain at that. If he was home he'd show you the books hisself and the prices we get."
"Seventy dollars for a baby-carriage! For that, Phonzie, you can buy the kid a taxi."
In a sotto voice and with a flow of red suffusing his face, Alphonse Michelson turned to Gertie Dobriner, his hand curved blinker fashion to inclose his words.
"For Gawd's sake, cut the haggling, Gert. If this here white enamel is the carriage we want, let's take it and hike. I got to get home."
Miss Dobriner drew up her back to a feline arch. "The gentleman says we'll take it for sixty-five, spot cash."
"My husband's great for one price, madam. We don't cater to none but private trade and—"
"Sure you don't. If we could have got one of these glass-top carriages in a department store, we wouldn't be swimming over here to Brooklyn just to try out our stroke."
"Mrs. Nan Ness, who sent you here, knows the kind of goods we turn out. She says she's going to give us an order for a twin buggy yet, some of these days. If the Four Hundred believed in babies like the Four Million, we'd have a plant all over Brooklyn. Only my husband won't spread, he—he—"
Mr. Michelson waved aside the impending recitation with a sweep of his hand. "Is this the one you like, Gert?"
"Yes, with the folding top. Say, don't I want to see madam's face when she sees it. And say, won't the kid be a scream, Phonzie, all nestled up in there like a honey bunch?"