When Elkan emerged from the One-Hundred-and-Sixteenth Street station of the subway that evening a familiar voice hailed him from the rear.
"Nu, Elkan!" cried B. Gans, for it was none other than he. "You made out fine at the meeting this morning—ain't it?"
"Who told you?" Elkan asked as he linked arms with the highgrade manufacturer.
"Never mind who told me," B. Gans said jokingly; "but all I could say is you made a tremendous hit with Jacob Paul, Elkan—and if that ain't no compliment, understand me, I don't know what is. Why, there ain't a better judge of men oder antique furniture in this here city than Paul, Elkan. He's an A-Number-One credit man, too, and I bet yer he gets a big salary from them Hamsuckett Mills people, which the least his income could be—considering what he picks up selling antiques—is fifteen thousand a year."
"Does Paul sell all the antiques he collects?" Elkan asked.
"Does he?" B. Gans rejoined. "Well, I should say he does! Myself I bought from him in the past two weeks half a dozen chairs, understand me—four last week and two to-day—which I am paying him five hundred dollars for the lot. They're worth it, too, Elkan. I never seen finer examples of the period."
"But are you sure they're gen-wine?" Elkan asked as they reached the entrance to his apartment house.
"Paul says they are," B. Gans answered, slapping Elkan's shoulder in farewell; "and if he's mistaken, Elkan, then I'm content that I should be."
Two hours later, however, after Elkan had recounted to Yetta all the incidents of Dishkes' meeting and the resulting sale of the chairs, his conscience smote him.