"Leave that to me, Mr. Polatkin," he said, and put on his hat preparatory to going out to lunch.
Nevertheless when he descended from his room at the New Salisbury that evening and prepared to take a turn on the boardwalk before dinner, his confidence evaporated at the coolness of his reception by the assembled guests of the hotel. Leon Sammet cut him dead, and even B. Gans greeted him with half jovial reproach.
"Well, Elkan," he said, "going to entertain any more fromme Leute in the Garden to-night?"
"Seemingly, Mr. Gans," Elkan said, "it was a big shock to everybody here to see for the first time an old lady wearing a sheitel. I suppose nobody here never seen it before, ain't it?"
B. Gans put a fatherly hand on Elkan's shoulder.
"I'll tell yer, Elkan," he said, "if I would be such a rosher, understand me, that I would hold it against you because you ain't forgetting an old friend, like this here lady must be, y'understand, I should never sell a dollar's worth more goods so long as I live, aber if Klinger and Sammet would start kidding you in front of Scharley, understand me, it would look bad."
"Why would it look bad, Mr. Gans?" Elkan broke in.
"Because it don't do nobody no good to have funny stories told about 'em, except an actor oder a politician, Elkan," Gans replied as the dinner gong began to sound, "which if a customer wouldn't take you seriously, he wouldn't take your goods seriously neither, Elkan, and that's all there is to it."
He smiled reassuringly as he walked toward the dining room and left Elkan a prey to most uncomfortable reflections, which did not abate when he overheard Klinger and Sammet hail Gans at the end of the veranda.
"Well, Mr. Gans," Klinger said with a sidelong glance at Elkan, "what are you going to eat to-night—brown stewed fish sweet und sour?"