"The boy is all right, Aaron," he said. "A good, smart boy, Max, and he ain't afraid to open his mouth, neither."
"I bet yer he ain't," Aaron replied, as Philip approached with a sample garment in one hand and the feather duster in the other.
"Look, Mr. Zaretsky," he said, "here's one of your style twenty-twenty-two with a thirty-twenty-two ticket on to it."
Sam examined the garment and stared at his partner.
"The boy is right, Max," he said. "We got the wrong ticket on that garment."
For one brief moment Aaron glanced affectionately at his nephew, and then he voiced his pride and admiration in a paroxysm of coughing that made Miss Meyerson come running from the office.
"What's the matter?" she asked. "Couldn't I do something?"
For almost five minutes Aaron rocked and wheezed in his chair. At length, when he seemed to be at the point of suffocation, Miss Meyerson slapped him on the back, and with a final gasp he recovered his breath.
"Thanks, much obliged," he said, as he wiped his streaming eyes.
"You're sure you don't want a doctor?" Miss Meyerson said.