Six months later Harry Zamp sat in Dachtel's Coffee House on Canal Street, and smoked a post-prandial cigar. A diamond pin sparkled in his neck-tie, and his well-cut clothing testified to his complete solvency.
Indeed, a replica of the coat and vest hung in the window of his enlarged business premises on Canal Street, labelled "The Latest from the London Pickadillies," and he had sold, strictly for cash, more than a dozen of the same style during the last twenty-four hours. For the rush of trade which began on the day when he hired the "property" salesmen and cutters had not only continued but had actually increased; and it was therefore with the most pleasurable sensations that he recognized, at the next table, Isaac Meiselson, the unconscious cause of all his prosperity.
"Excuse me," he began, "ain't your name Meiselson?"
"My name is Mr. Meiselson," Isaac admitted. "This is Mr. Zamp, ain't it?"
Zamp nodded.
"You look pretty well, considering the way you are working in that clothing business of yours," Meiselson remarked.
"Hard work never hurted me none," Zamp answered. "Are you still in the soap and perfumery business, Mr. Meiselson?"
Meiselson shook his head.
"No," he said, "I went out of the soap business when I got married last month."
"Is that so?" Zamp commented. "And did you go into another business?"