When Sam entered the showroom of Henry Schrimm's place of business, half an hour later, Henry hastened to greet him. "Wie gehts, Mr. Gembitz?" he cried.
He drew forward a chair and Sam sank into it as feebly as he considered appropriate to the rôle of a convalescent.
"I'm a pretty sick man, Henry," he said, "and I feel I ain't long for this world."
He allowed his head to loll over his left shoulder in an attitude of extreme fatigue; in doing so, however, his eye rested for a moment upon a shipping clerk who was arranging Henry's sample garments on some old-fashioned racks.
"Say, lookyhere, Henry," Sam exclaimed, raising his head suddenly, "how the devil could you let a feller like that ruin your whole sample line?"
He jumped from his chair and strode across the showroom.
"Schlemiel!" he cried. "What for you are wrinkling them garments like that?"
He seized a costume from the astonished shipping clerk and for half an hour he arranged and rearranged Henry's samples until the job was finished to his satisfaction.
"Mr. Gembitz," Henry protested, "sit down for a minute. You would make yourself worse."
"What d'ye mean, make myself worse?" Sam demanded. "I am just as much able to do this as you are, Henry. Where do you keep your piece goods, Henry?"