“An’ is’t your business?” The Irish blood flared.
“Perhaps,” replied the Hebrew, coolly flicking the ash. And then:
“Wouldn’t you rather put it off and take a job?”
The red faded from the face in front of him, the pale lips parted in silence, and one hand caught the counter.
“If you would, come to my place, The Star Pool and Billiard Palace, four blocks above the Bridge, and I’ll start you at twelve and a half a week. One of my men skipped with forty dollars’ worth of billiard balls yesterday—I am looking for them now. You can have his job. A man who will pawn his coat a night like this for his wife and baby and don’t get drunk won’t steal billiard balls. It’s a business proposition.”
He drew from his pocket a fat roll of bills and peeled off a five.
“Take this on account,” he concluded, studiously avoiding the other’s gaze. “It will loosen up things at home until to-morrow. Here, take your coat along.”
From the door the Irishman rushed back, seized the garment, extended his hand, but suddenly withdrew it.
“Not now, sor,” he stammered brokenly. “Sure, I can’t say it! I’ll say it ivery day I work for ye.”
“Good! You’re all right! Now hustle, my boy!”