"What would I do with a fiddle, Aaron?" Nathan Schenkman, the shipping clerk, asked.
"You I ain't saying at all," Aaron said; "but you got a little boy Nathan."
"He ain't a year old yet," Nathan interrupted.
"Sure, I know," Shellak went on; "but now is the time, Nathan. You couldn't begin too early. Look at Kubelik and Kreisler and all them fellers. When they was eating from a bottle already the old man give 'em a fiddle to play with, and to-day where are they? In one concert tower alone, Nathan, them fellers makes from fifty to a hundred thousand dollars."
He paused so that Nathan might better apprehend the alluring prospect.
"And I'll let you have it for a hundred and fifty dollars, Nathan," he concluded. "Ten dollars down and two dollars a week till paid. No interest nor nothing."
At this juncture Abe burst into the cutting room.
"Nu, Shellak!" he roared. "What are you trying to do? Skin a poor feller like Nathan, which he got a wife and a child to support?"
"What d'ye mean, skin him?" Aaron retorted. "I ain't no crook, Mr. Potash."
"That's all right, Shellak," Abe went on. "I heard every word you are saying. Come inside; I want to talk to you."