"I know your face," Abe said, "but your name ain't familiar. I guess I seen you in Seattle, ain't it?"
B. Rashkin nodded. He had never been farther West than Jersey City Heights.
"Well, how is things in Seattle, Mister—er——"
"Rashkin," B. Rashkin supplied.
"Rashkin?" Abe went on, and then he paused, but not for an answer. "Rashkin—why, I don't know no one from that name in Seattle."
"No?" Rashkin replied. "Well, the fact is, Mr. Potash, I ain't come to see you about Seattle. I come to see you about three lots up in Two Hundred and Sixty-fourth Street."
The urbane smile faded at once from Abe's face and gave place to a dark scowl.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "a real estater. I ain't got no time to fool away with real estaters."
"This ain't fooling away your time, Mr. Potash," Rashkin said. "Let me explain the proposition to you."
Without waiting for permission he at once divulged the object of his visit, while Abe listened with the bored air of an unemployed leading man at a professional matinée.