"Sure I spoke to her," Abe said. "I says good-morning, and she recognized me right away. I asked after Moe, and she says he's well; and I says if she comes down here for fall goods; and she says she ain't going to talk no business for a couple of days, as it's a long time already since she was in New York and she wants to look around her. Then I says it's a fine weather for driving just now."
He paused for a moment and looked at Morris.
"Yes," Morris said, "and what did she say?"
"She says sure it is," Abe continued, "only, she says she got thrown out of a wagon last fall, and so she's kind of sour on horses. She says nowadays she don't go out except in oitermobiles."
"Oitermobiles!" Morris exclaimed, and Ralph Tuchman, whose protruding ears, sharp-pointed nose and gold spectacles did not belie his inquisitive disposition, ceased writing to listen more closely to Abe's story.
"That's what she said, Mawruss," Abe replied; "and so I says for my part, I liked it better oitermobiles as horses."
"Why, Abe," Morris cried, "you ain't never rode in an oitermobile in all your life."
"Sure not, Mawruss, I'm lucky if I get to a funeral
oncet in a while. Ike," he broke off suddenly, "you better get them statements mailed."
Ralph Tuchman rose sadly and repaired to the office.