"No, Mawruss," Abe replied, "I'm sorry to say we can't, because, by the agreement what Henry D. Feldman drew up, Sammet Brothers has the sole right to make up and sell the Arverne Sacques; but I seen to it, Mawruss, that we got the right to make up and sell every other garment what Louis Grossman originated for them this season."
He smiled triumphantly at his partner.
"And," he concluded, "he's coming to work Monday morning."
At the end of three disillusionizing weeks Abe Potash and Morris Perlmutter sat in the show-room of their place of business. Abe's hat was tilted over his eyes and he whistled a tuneless air. Morris was biting his nails.
"Well, Mawruss," Abe said at length, "when we're
stuck we're stuck; ain't it? What's the use of sitting here like a couple of mummies; ain't it?"
Morris ceased biting his nails.
"Yes, Abe," he said, "ten hundred and thirty-three, thirty-three for a designer what couldn't design paper-bags for a delicatessen store. I believe he must have took lessons in designing from a correspondence school."
"Believe me, Mawruss, he learned it by telephone," Abe replied. "But cussing him out won't do no good, Mawruss. The thing to do now is to get busy and turn out some garments what we can sell. Them masquerade costumes what he gets up you couldn't sell to a five-and-ten-cent store."
"All right," Morris said. "Let's have another designer and leave Louis to do the cutting."