"Flaxberg," he cried, "wait a minute!"
Flaxberg returned to the office and nonchalantly lit a cigarette.
"Listen here to me, Flaxberg," Polatkin began. "Take from us a hundred and fifty dollars and quit!"
Flaxberg continued the operation of lighting his cigarette and blew a great cloud of smoke before replying.
"What for a piker do you think I am anyhow?" he asked.
"What d'ye mean—piker?" Polatkin said. "A hundred and fifty ain't to be sneezed at, Flaxberg."
"Ain't it?" Flaxberg retorted. "Well, with me, I got a more delicate nose as most people, Mr. Polatkin. I sneeze at everything under five hundred dollars—and that's all there is to it."
Once more he turned on his heel and walked out of the office; but this time his progress toward the stairs was more deliberate, for, despite his defiant attitude, Flaxberg's finances were at low ebb owing to a marked reversal of form exhibited the previous day in the third race at New Orleans. Moreover, he felt confident that a judicious investment of a hundred and fifty dollars would net him that very afternoon at least five hundred dollars, if any reliance were to be placed on the selection of Merlando, the eminent sporting writer of the Morning Wireless.
Consequently he afforded every opportunity for Marcus to call him back, and he even paused at the factory door and applied a lighted match to his already burning cigarette. The expected summons failed, however, and instead he was nearly precipitated to the foot of the stairs by no less a person than Elkan Lubliner.
"Excuse me, Mr. Flaxberg," Elkan said. "I ain't seen you at all."