"Amalgamated Refineries goes up four points on six sales in half an hour," the short stout man replied, "and I win two thousand."
The short stout man started down the hall and executed a fantastic dancing step in front of the elevators, while Uncle Mosha entered the door marked "Customers."
"Mr. Klinkberg," he said, handing Klinkberg & Company's two thousand eight hundred dollar check to that firm's senior partner, "buy me one thousand shares Amalgamated Refineries at the market."
An hour later he walked leisurely along Madison Street, and as he approached his own doorway Aaron Kronberg swooped down upon him.
"Uncle Mosha," he almost screamed, "where was you?"
"Where was I?" Uncle Mosha replied. "Why, I was where I was. That's where I was. What difference does it make to you where I was?"
"What difference does it make to me?" Aaron cried. "Ain't I putting up the—er—don't you know you was due at Henry D. Feldman's office to close your title at one o'clock?—and here it is half-past one already!"
For a minute Uncle Mosha's face fell. In the excitement of following the profitable course of his speculation he had completely forgotten his real estate transaction, but he quickly recovered his composure.
"Oh, well," he said, "let 'em wait! The house won't run away, Aaron. Let's go and get a cup coffee somewheres."
"Coffee, nothing!" Aaron growled; "you're coming right along with me. I got a carriage waiting for you."