"Well, Zwiebel," he growled, "what d'ye want now?"
"Oh, nothing," Zwiebel replied blandly. "I thought I'd step in and see how my Milton was getting along."
"You see how he is getting along," Rothman said. "He ain't here at all. That feller takes an hour for his lunch every day."
Zwiebel drew a cigar out of his pocket and licked it reflectively.
"So," he said, "you couldn't do no better with him than that, hey? Well, Rothman, I guess it ain't no use fooling away your time any more. Give me my five thousand dollars and I will take back the boy into my business again."
Rothman turned pale.
"If you would let the boy stay here a while," he suggested, "he would turn out all right, maybe."
"What's the matter?" Zwiebel asked. "Ain't you got the five thousand handy?"
"The five thousand is nothing," Rothman retorted. "You could get your five thousand whenever you want it. The fact is, Zwiebel, while the boy is a low-life, y'understand, I take an interest in that boy and I want to see if I couldn't succeed in making a man of him."
Mr. Zwiebel waved his hand with the palm outward.