Abe reached for his hat.
"I bet yer you got your hands full, Mawruss," he grumbled. "The way it looks, now, Mawruss, you got our sample lines so mixed up it'll be out of date before you get it sorted out again."
"All right," Morris retorted, "we'll get out a new one. We don't care nothing about the expenses, Abe. If the old fixtures ain't good enough our sample line ain't good enough, neither. Ain't it? What do we care about money, Abe?"
He paused to emphasize the irony.
"No, Abe," he concluded, "don't you worry about them samples, nor them fixtures, neither. You got
worry enough if you tend to your own business, Abe. I'll see that them samples gets up to Nineteenth Street in good shape."
Abe shrugged his shoulders and made for the door.
"And them fixtures also, Abe," Morris shouted after him.
The loft building on Nineteenth Street into which Potash & Perlmutter proposed to move was an imposing fifteen-story structure. Burnished metal signs of its occupants flanked its wide doorway, and the entrance hall gleamed with gold leaf and plaster porphyry, while the uniform of each elevator attendant would have graced the high admiral of a South American Navy.
So impressed was Abe with the magnificence of his surroundings that he forgot to call his floor when he entered one of the elevators, and instead of alighting at the fifth story he was carried up to the sixth floor before the car stopped.