In this instance, however, full fifty-nine days elapsed without word from M. Garfunkel, and on the morning of the sixtieth day Abe entered the store bearing every appearance of anxiety.
"Well, Abe," Morris cried, "what's the matter now? You look like you was worried."
"I bet yer I'm worried, Mawruss," Abe replied.
"Well, what's the use of worrying?" he rejoined. "M. Garfunkel's account ain't due till to-day."
"Always M. Garfunkel!" Abe cried. "M. Garfunkel don't worry me much, Mawruss.
I'd like to see a check from him, too, Mawruss, but I ain't wasting no time on him. My Rosie is sick."
"Sick!" Morris exclaimed. "That's too bad, Abe. What seems to be the trouble?"
"She got the rheumatism in her shoulder," Abe replied, "and she tries to get a girl by intelligent offices to help her out, but it ain't no use. It breaks her all up to get a girl, Mawruss. Fifteen years already she cooks herself and washes herself, and now she's got to get a girl, Mawruss, but she can't get one."
Morris clucked sympathetically.
"Maybe that girl of yours, Mawruss," Abe went on as though making an innocent suggestion, "what we sell the forty-twenty-two to, maybe she got a sister or a cousin maybe, what wants a job, Mawruss."