But Philip conducted his nephew no farther than round the corner on Canal Street, and when an hour later Yosel Borrochson returned with his uncle his top-boots had been discarded forever, while his wrinkled, semi-military garb had been exchanged for a neat suit of Oxford gray. Moreover, both he and Philip had consumed a hearty meal of coffee and rolls and were accordingly prepared to take a more cheerful outlook upon life, especially Philip.
"Bleib du hier," he said as he led young Borrochson to a chair in the cutting room. "Ich Komm bald zurück."
Then mindful of his partner's advice he broke into English. "Shtay here," he repeated in loud, staccato accents. "I would be right back. Verstehst du?"
"Yess-ss," Yosel replied, uttering his first word of English.
With a delighted grin Philip walked to the showroom, where Polatkin sat wiping away the crumbs of a belated luncheon of two dozen zwieback and a can of coffee.
"Nu," he said conciliatingly, "what is it now?"
"Marcus," Philip began with a nod of his head in the direction of the cutting room, "I want to show you something a picture."
"A picture!" Polatkin repeated as he rose to his feet. "What do you mean a picture?"
"Come," Philip said; "I'll show you."
He led the way to the cutting room, where Yosel sat awaiting his uncle's return.