When Marcus Polatkin arrived at his place of business the following morning he looked round him anxiously for his partner, who had departed somewhat early the previous day with the avowed intention of seeing just how sick Elkan was. As a matter of fact, Scheikowitz had discovered Elkan lying on the sofa at his boarding place, vainly attempting to secure his first few minutes' sleep in over thirty-six hours; and he had gone home truly shocked at Elkan's pallid and careworn appearance, though Elkan had promised to keep the appointment with Fischko. Polatkin felt convinced, however, that his partner must have discovered the pretence of Elkan's indisposition, and his manner was a trifle artificial when he inquired after the absentee.
"How was he feeling, Philip?" he asked.
"Pretty bad, I guess," Scheikowitz replied, whereat a blank expression came over Polatkin's face. "The boy works too hard, I guess. He ain't slept a wink for two days."
"Why, he seemed all right yesterday when I seen him," Polatkin declared.
"Yesterday?" Scheikowitz exclaimed.
"I mean the day before yesterday," Polatkin added hastily as the elevator door opened and a short, stout person alighted. He wore a wrinkled frock coat and a white tie which perched coquettishly under his left ear; and as he approached the office he seemed to be labouring under a great deal of excitement.
"Oo-ee!" he wailed as he caught sight of Polatkin, and without further salutation he sank into the nearest chair. There he bowed his head in his hands and rocked to and fro disconsolately.
"Who's this crazy feller?" Scheikowitz demanded of his partner.
Polatkin shrugged.
"He's a button salesman by the name Rashkind," Polatkin said. "Leave me deal with him." He walked over to the swaying Shadchen and shook him violently by the shoulder. "Rashkind," he said, "stop that nonsense and tell me what's the matter."