Sam deemed it hardly worth while to acquiesce in this statement, but he indorsed it unconsciously with a large tear, which stole put of the corner of his eye and worked a clean groove down one travel-stained cheek.
"Have a smoke, Sam," Morris added hastily as he thrust a cigar toward his late customer. "Did you got your lunch yet? No? Come on out with me now and we would have a little bite to eat."
He jumped to his feet and seized his hat.
"Nathan," he bawled to the shipping clerk, "tell Mr. Potash I am going out with a customer and I'll be back when I am here."
Max Kirschner had reached the age of sixty without making a single enemy save his stomach, which at length ungratefully rejected all the rich favours that Max had bestowed on it so long and so generously. Indeed, he was reduced to a diet of crackers and milk when Abe encountered him in Hammersmith's restaurant that September morning.
"Hello, Max!" Abe cried. "When did you get back? I thought you was in one of them—now—sanatoriums."
"A sanatorium is no place for a drummer to find a job, Abe," Max replied.
"A good salesman like you could find a job anywhere without much trouble, Max," Abe said cheerfully.
"That's what everybody says, Abe; meantime I'm loafing."