"Who is knocking the boy?" Polatkin demanded. "All I says is the boy is ambitious, Scheikowitz—which, if you don't think it's ambitious a feller tries to sell goods to Joseph Kammerman, Scheikowitz, what is it then?"
"There's worser people to sell goods to as Joseph Kammerman, Polatkin, which he is a millionaire concern, understand me," Scheikowitz declared; "and you could take it from me, Polatkin, even if you would accuse him he is ambitious oder not, that boy always got idees to do big things—and he works hard till he lands 'em. So if you want to call that ambitious, Polatkin, go ahead and do so. When a loafer knocks it's a boost every time."
With this ultimatum Scheikowitz followed his junior partner to the rear of the loft, where Elkan regarded with a critical eye the labors of his cutting-room staff.
"Nu, Elkan," Scheikowitz asked, "what's biting you now?"
Elkan winked significantly—and a moment later he tapped an assistant cutter on the shoulder.
"Max," he said, "do you got maybe a grudge against that piece of goods, the way you are slamming it round?"
The assistant cutter smiled in an embarrassed fashion.
"The fact is," he said apologetically, "I wasn't thinking about them goods at all. When you are laying out goods for cutting, Mr. Lubliner, you don't got to think much—especially pastel shades."
"Pastel shades?" Elkan repeated.
"That's what I said," the cutter replied. "Mit colors like reds and greens, which they are hitting you right in the face, so to speak, you couldn't get your mind off of 'em at all; but pastel shades, that's something else again. They quiet you like smoking a cigarette."