"But how comes a young feller like him to be eating at Wasserbauer's?" Scheikowitz continued. "Where does he get the money from he should eat there?"
"The fact is"—said Flaxberg, who up to this point had remained a silent listener to the entire controversy—"the fact is, Mr. Scheikowitz, yesterday I am taking pity on the feller on account he is looking sick; and I took him into Wasserbauer's and invited him he should eat a little something."
Here he paused and licked his lips maliciously.
"And though I don't want to say nothing against the feller, understand me," he continued, "he begins right away to talk about horseracing."
"Horseracing?" Polatkin cried.
Flaxberg nodded and made a gesture implying more plainly than the words themselves: "Can you beat it?"
"Horseracing!" Scheikowitz repeated. "Well, what do you think of that for a lowlife bum?"
"And when I called him down for gambling, Mr. Polatkin, he walks right out, so independent he is. Furthermore, though it's none of my business, Mr. Polatkin," Flaxberg went on, "Markulies tells me this morning early the same story like he tells you—before he knew the goods was missing even."
"Sure, I believe you," Polatkin retorted. "He was getting the whole thing fixed up beforehand. That's the kind of Rosher he is."
As he spoke Markulies entered, and there followed on his heels the short, stout figure of Marx Feinermann.