"The fact of the matter is," Max Gembitz said, two days later, "we ain't got the ready money."
Sam Gembitz nodded. He sat at a desk in Henry Schrimm's office—a new desk of the latest Wall Street design; and on the third finger of his left hand a plain gold band was surmounted by a three-carat diamond ring, the gift of the bride.
"No?" he said, with a rising inflection.
"And you know as well as I do, popper, we was always a little short this time of the year in our business!" Max continued.
"Our business?" Sam repeated. "You mean your business, Max."
"What difference does it make?" Max asked.
"It makes a whole lot of difference, Max," Sam declared; "because, if I would be a partner in your business, Max, I would practically got to be one of my own competitors."
"One of your own competitors!" Max cried. "What d'ye mean?"
For answer Sam handed his son the following card: