"So——"
"Well, here we are. I'll run up and show you the door"—as we stopped at a little butcher shop beside which was a door that evidently led up a stair to the upper story.
"All right. You know Mr. Wolffert?"
"Sure! We all know him. He's a Jew, too."
"Sure!" I tried to imitate his tone, for it was not an accent only.
He ran up the stair and on up a second flight and back along a dark, narrow little passage, where he tapped on a door, and, without waiting, walked in.
"Here's a man to see you."
"A gentleman, you mean," I said dryly, and followed him, for I have a particular aversion to being referred to to my face as a mere man. It is not a question of natural history, but of manners.
"Well, Jacob," said Wolffert when he had greeted me, "have you got to the top yet?"
"Will be next week," said Jacob confidently.