Maikafer nodded as he pocketed his change.
"All right, Trinkmann," he said. "But you know what happens when a concern lets a salesman go. He easy finds a partner and starts to do business with his old firm's customers on his own account."
Trinkmann laughed aloud.
"That Schnorrer ain't got money enough to stock a pushcart, let alone a restaurant," he jeered.
"That's all right," Maikafer retorted. "I know a feller which runs for years a place in East New York—Brownsville—Trinkmann, and when he hears Louis ain't working, not only he would be glad to give him a job as waiter, but he would stake him to an interest in the restaurant yet."
Trinkmann flapped his right hand at Maikafer in a gesture of derision.
"Schmooes!" he cried.
"No Schmooes at all," Max said, as he passed out of the door. "He's the feller I am talking to you about by the name Ringentaub, and across the street is plenty vacant stores."
Ten minutes after Max had departed Simon Feinsilver entered.
"Say, Trinkmann," he asked, as he paused at the cashier's desk on his way to one of Louis' tables, "did you seen it Max Maikafer this morning?"