"In the first place, Sam," he commented, "the garment has been worn."
"What are you talking nonsense—worn?" Sam protested. "Once only my Leah puts it on to see the damage. There it is."
Sam pointed with his forefinger and Morris looked at the spot indicated.
"Well, how could that be damaged in packing, Sam?" Morris asked indignantly. "That's a stain from lockshen soup."
"My wife must got to eat like any other woman!" Sam exclaimed indignantly; "and besides, Mawruss, the stain ain't all soup, y'understand—some of it gets wet in the packing-case."
"Well, I wouldn't bother my head about it no more," Morris retorted. "I deposited your check just now and we are lucky, if you would deduct four dollars, that we got our money at all."
"Maybe you are and maybe you ain't, Mawruss," Sam commented. "That's what I come down to see you about."
"What d'ye mean?" Morris cried.
"I mean," Sam said in husky tones, "I don't know whether the check is good at all. When I mailed it you I got a little balance at my bank, but yesterday afternoon the president sends for me and shuts down on my accommodation; and maybe—I don't know whether he did oder not, y'understand—he takes my balance on account."
Morris laid down the garment and fixed his visitor with an angry glare.