Part 15 (1/2)
”And we would call him Pesach,” Hillel said to his mother-in-law shortly after the birth of his heir, ”after your Uncle Pesach Gubin.”
”My Uncle Pesach Gubin!” Mrs. Miriam Saphir protested. ”What are you talking nonsense, Hillel? That lowlife is Mrs. Seiden's uncle, not my uncle.”
”Your cousin, then,” Hillel continued. ”What's the difference if he's your cousin _oder_ your uncle--we would call the boy after him, anyhow.”
”Call the boy after that drinker--that b.u.m! What for? The feller ain't no relation to me at all. Why should we call the precious lamb after Beckie Seiden's relations?”
”Do you mean to told me,” he said, ”that Pesach Gubin ain't no relation to Bessie at all?”
Mrs. Saphir nodded and blushed.
”The way families is mixed up nowadays, Hillel,” she said, ”it don't do no harm to claim relation with some people.”
Her face commenced to resume its normal colour.
”Especially,” she added, ”if they got money.”
CHAPTER FOUR
SERPENTS' TEETH
”All right, Max,” cried Samuel Gembitz, senior member of S. Gembitz & Sons; ”if you think you know more about it as I do, Max, go ahead and make up that style in all them fancy shades. But listen to what I'm telling you, Max: black, navy blue, brown, and smoke is plenty enough; and all them copenhoogens, wisterias, and tchampanyers we would get stuck with, just as sure as little apples.”
”That's what you think, pop,” Max Gembitz replied.
”Well, I got a right to think, ain't I?” Samuel Gembitz retorted.
”Sure,” Max said, ”and so have I.”
”After me,” Samuel corrected. ”I think first and then you think, Max; and I think we wouldn't plunge so heavy on them 1040's. Make up a few of 'em in blacks, navies, browns, and smokes, Max, and afterward we would see about making up the others.”
He rose from his old-fas.h.i.+oned Windsor chair in the firm's private office and put on his hat--a silk hat of a style long obsolete.
”I am going to my lunch, Max,” he said firmly, ”and when I come back I will be here. Another thing, Max: you got an idee them 1040's is a brand-new style which is so original, understand me, we are bound to make a big hit with it at seven-fifty apiece--ain't it?”
Max nodded.
”Well, good styles travels fast, Max,” the old man said; ”and you could take it from me, Max, in two weeks' time Henry Schrimm and all them other fellers would be falling over themselves to sell the self-same garment at seven dollars.”
He seized a gold-mounted, ebony cane, the gift of Harmony Lodge, 100, I.O.M.A., and started for the stairway, but as he reached the door he turned suddenly.
”Max,” he shouted, ”tell them boys to straighten up the sample racks.
The place looks like a pigsty already.”
As the door closed behind his father Max aimed a kick at the old-fas.h.i.+oned walnut desk and the old-fas.h.i.+oned Windsor chair; and then, lighting a cigarette, he walked hurriedly to the cutting room.
”Lester,” he said to his younger brother, who was poring over a book of sample swatches, ”what do you think now?”
”Huh?” Lester grunted.