Don't send no more goods to Lowenstein " " " " wires " nobody
"Fourteen words," the operator said. "Fifty-four cents."
"What's that?" Abe cried. "What yer trying to do? Make money on me? That ain't no fourteen words. That's nine words."
"It is, hey?" the operator rejoined. "Quit yer kiddin'. Dat's fourteen words. Ditto marks don't go, see?"
"You're a fresh young feller," said Abe, paying over fifty-four cents, "and I got a good mind to report you to the head office."
The operator laughed raucously.
"G'wan!" he said. "Beat it, or I'll sick de cops onter yer. It's agin the law to cuss in Pittsburgh, even by telegraft."
When Abe returned to the Outlet Auction House's store Hyman was busy stacking up the plum-color gowns in piles convenient for shipping.
"Well, Abe," he said, "I thought you was here for a vacation. You're doing some pretty tall hustling for a sick man, I must say."
"I'll tell you the truth, Hymie," Abe replied, "I ain't got no time to be sick. It ain't half-past three yet, and I guess I'll take a couple of them garments and see what I can do with the jobbing and retail trade in this here town."