"So?" Abe commented. "Well, how would I go about that?"
Feinstein pulled his hat over his eyes and, resting his cigar on the top of Rifkin's desk with the lighted end next to the wood, he drew Abe toward the rear of the office.
"Leave that to me," he said mysteriously. "Of course, you couldn't expect to get them fixtures much under six hundred dollars at private sale, because it's got to be done under the direction of the court; but for fifty dollars I could undertake to let
you in on 'em for, say, five hundred and seventy-five dollars. How's that?"
Abe puffed at his cigar before replying.
"I got to see it my partner first," he said.
"That's all right, too," Feinstein rejoined; "but there was one dealer in here this morning already. As soon as the rest of 'em get on to this here failure they'll be buzzing around them fixtures like flies in a meat market, and maybe I won't be able to put it through for you at all."
"I tell you what I'll do," Abe said. "I'll go right down to the store and I'll be back here at two o'clock."
"You've got to hustle if you want them fixtures," he said.
"I bet yer I got to hustle," Abe said, his eyes fixed on the marred surface of the desk, "for if you're going to smoke many more cigars around here them fixtures won't be no more good to nobody."