"Give the feller a show, Mawruss," Abe replied. "He ain't been in Chicago forty-eight hours yet. We'll wait till we get it another letter from him, Mawruss, before we start to kick."
Another day elapsed, but no further epistle came
from Marks Pasinsky, and when the last mail arrived without any word from Chicago Morris grew worried.
"Not even a weather report, Abe," he said. "If he couldn't sell no goods, Abe, at least he could write us a letter."
"Maybe he's too busy, Mawruss," Abe suggested.
"Busy taking assistant millinery buyers to lunch, Abe," Morris replied. "The way that feller acts, Abe, he ain't no stranger to auction pinochle, neither, I bet yer."
Abe put on his hat and coat preparatory to going home.
"What's the use knocking him yet a while, Mawruss?" he said. "A different tune you will sing it when we get a couple of orders from him to-morrow morning."
But the next forenoon's mail was barren of result, and when Abe went out to lunch that day he had little appetite for his food. Accordingly he sought an enameled-brick dairy restaurant, and he was midway in the consumption of a bowl of milk toast when Leon Sammet, senior partner of Sammet Brothers, entered.
"Well, Abe," he said, "do you got to diet, too?"