Ringentaub seized a chair in each hand and dragged them noisily to one side.
"As I was saying," he announced, "I ain't got no Florentine frames, Mr. Merech; so I am sorry we couldn't do no business."
"Well, then, thirty-seven-fifty, Mr. Ringentaub," Max continued; and Ringentaub made a flapping gesture with both hands.
"Say, lookyhere," he growled, "what is the use talking nonsense, Mr. Merech? For ten dollars apiece you could get on Twenty-third Street a couple chairs, understand me, made in some big factory, y'understand—A-Number-One pieces of furniture—which would suit you a whole lot better as gen-wine pieces. These here chairs is for conoozers, Mr. Merech; so, if you want any shiny candlesticks oder Moskva samovars from brass-spinners on Center Street, y'understand, a couple doors uptown you would find plenty fakers. Aber here is all gen-wine stuff, y'understand; and for gen-wine stuff you got to pay full price, understand me, which if them chairs stays in my store till they are five hundred years old already I wouldn't take a cent less for 'em as fifty dollars."
Max turned inquiringly to Mrs. Lubliner; and, during the short pause that followed, the agonized voice of Louis Dishkes came once more from the back room.
"What could I do?" he said to Mrs. Ringentaub. "I want to be square mit everybody, and I must got to act quick on account that sucker Sammet will close me up sure."
"Ai, tzuris!" Mrs. Ringentaub moaned; at which her husband coughed noisily and Elkan moved nearer to the partition.
"Would you go as high as fifty dollars, Mrs. Lubliner?" Max asked, and Yetta nodded.
"All right, Mr. Ringentaub," Max concluded; "we'll take 'em at fifty dollars."
"And you wouldn't regret it neither," Ringentaub replied. "I'll make you out a bill right away."