“Shut up! Now, by Crimus, you—you furriner—you Speranzy—”
Mr. Keeler appeared at the office window. His shrill voice rose pipingly in the wintry air as he demanded to know what was the trouble out there.
Mr. Price, still foaming, strode toward the window; Albert laughingly followed him.
“What's the matter?” repeated Laban. “There's enough noise for a sewin' circle. Be still, Is, can't you, for a minute. Al, what's the trouble?”
“Issy's been talking about his face,” explained Albert, soberly.
“I ain't neither. I was h'istin' up my end of a j'ist, same as I'm paid to do, and, 'stead of helpin' he stands there and heaves out talk about—about—”
“Well, about what?”
“Aw, about—about me and—and girls—and all sorts of dum foolishness. I tell ye, I've got somethin' else to do beside listen to that kind of cheap talk.”
“Um. Yes, yes. I see. Well, Al, what have you got to say?”
“Nothing. I'm sure I don't know what it is all about. I was working as hard as I could and all at once he began pitching into me.”