"'S all right, Rothman," he said. "You shouldn't put yourself to all that trouble. You done enough for the boy, and I'm sure I'm thankful to you. Besides, I'm sick of fooling away fifteen dollars every week."
Rothman shrugged his shoulders.
"Nah!" he said. "Keep the fifteen dollars, I will pay him the fifteen dollars out of my own pocket."
"But the boy is all the time complaining, Rothman, he couldn't live on fifteen dollars a week."
"All right, I'll give him twenty."
Zwiebel rose to his feet.
"You will, hey?" he roared. "You couldn't get that boy for fifty, Rothman, nor a hundred, neither, because I knew it all along, Rothman, and I always said it, that boy is a natural-born business man, y'understand, and next week I shall go to work and buy a cloak and suit business and put him into it. And that's all I got to say to you."
Maximilian Levy, real-estate operator, sat in his private office and added up figures on the back of an envelope. As he did so, Charles Zwiebel entered.
"Mr. Levy?" Zwiebel said.