“Vat you want on dis vatch?” he asks mournfully.
“Fifty dollars. It cost me one hundred and fifty,” is the reply.
“Fifty tollar! fifty tollar! Holy Moshish, vat you take me for?”
Then turning, calls wildly, “Abraham! Abraham! you shust koom heir, quick.”
A second Jew, dirtier and more disreputable looking than the first, makes his appearance, and the proprietor, passing up his hands, shrieks out, as if in despair:
“Abraham! he vants fifty tollars on dat vatch. De man is crazy.”
“Ve shall be ruined,” echoes Abraham, hoarsely. “Ve couldn’t do it. Tish too much.”
The proprietor waves his arms wildly, takes the watch from Abraham, and eyeing the owner sharply for a moment, says:
“I tell you vat I do. I gif you fifteen tollars. How long you vant de monish?”
“Only for a month,” replies the young man, evidently struggling between disgust and despair.