Part 24 (1/2)

”You must think I need money bad in my business,” Rothman commented.

”Every man in the cloak and suit business needs money this year, Rothman,” said Zwiebel, who was in the cigar business. His specialty was the manufacture of cigars for the entertainment of cloak and suit customers, and his own financial affairs accurately reflected conditions in the woman's outer garment trade. For instance, when cloak buyers are anxious to buy goods the frugal manufacturer withholds his hospitality; but if the demand for cloaks is slack, then M to Z customers are occasionally regaled with cigars from the ”gilt-edged”

box. This season Zwiebel was selling more and better cigars than for many years past, and he made his deductions accordingly.

”Yes, Mr. Rothman,” Zwiebel concluded, ”there's plenty cloak and suit men would be glad to get a young feller like my Milton on such terms what I offer it.”

”Well, why don't you talk to 'em about it?” Rothman replied. ”I am satisfied.”

But there was something about Rothman's face that to Zwiebel augured well for his son's regeneration. Like the advertised loft buildings in the cloak and suit district, Mr. Rothman's face was of steel construction throughout, and Zwiebel felt so sure of Rothman's ability to cope with Milton's shortcomings that he raised the bid to three thousand dollars. Firmness, however, is a quality that makes for success in every phase of business, particularly in bargaining; and when the deal was closed Rothman had hired Milton Zwiebel for nothing a week. Mr. Zwiebel, on his part, had agreed to invest five thousand dollars in Rothman's business, the same to bear interest at 3 per cent.

per annum. He had also bound himself to repay Rothman the weekly salary of fifteen dollars which Milton was to receive, and when they parted they shook hands warmly on the transaction.

”Well, Mr. Rothman,” Zwiebel concluded, ”I hope you will see to it the boy behaves himself.”

Rothman's mouth described a downward arc.

”Don't worry, Mr. Zwiebel,” he said; ”leave it to me.”

Milton Zwiebel had not found his _metier_. He had tried almost everything in the Business Directory from Architectural Iron Work to Yarns, Domestic and Imported, and had ascertained all of them to be lacking in the one quality he craved--excitement.

”That boy is looking for trouble all the time, mommer,” Charles Zwiebel said to his wife on the night after his conversation with Rothman, ”and I guess he will get so much as he wants by Rothman. Such a face I never seen it before, like Haman. If Milton should get fresh with him, mommer, he would get it a _Schlag_, I bet yer.”

”Ain't you ashamed to talk that way?” Mrs. Zwiebel protested.

”It'll do the boy good, mommer,” Mr. Zwiebel replied. ”That boy is a regular loafer. It's eleven o'clock already and he ain't home yet. What that lowlife does when he stays out till all hours of the night I don't know. One thing is sure, he ain't doing no good. I hate to think where that boy will end up, mommer.”

He shook his head and heavily ascended the stairs to bed, while Mrs.

Zwiebel settled herself down with the evening paper to await Milton's return.

She had a weary vigil ahead of her, for Milton had at last found serious employment. Only that evening he had been engaged by Professor Felix l.u.s.thaus as a double-ba.s.s player in l.u.s.thaus's grand orchestra of forty pieces. This organization had been hired to render the dance music for the fifteenth annual ball of Harmony Lodge, 142, I.O.M.A., and the chairman of the entertainment committee had been influenced in his selection by the preponderating number of the orchestra's members over other competing bands.

Now, to the inexperienced ear twenty-five players will emit nearly as much noise as forty, and in view of this circ.u.mstance Professor l.u.s.thaus was accustomed to hire twenty-five bona-fide members of the musical union, while the remaining fifteen pieces were what are technically known as sleepers. That is to say, Professor l.u.s.thaus provided them with instruments and they were directed to go through the motions without making any sound.

Milton, for instance, was instructed how to manipulate the fingerboard of his ponderous instrument, but he was enjoined to draw his bow across the metal base of the music-stand and to avoid the strings upon peril of his job. During the opening two-step Milton's behaviour was exemplary. He watched the antics of the other _contra ba.s.so_ and duplicated them so faithfully as to call for a commendatory nod from the Professor at the conclusion of the number.

His undoing began with the second dance, which was a waltz. As _contra ba.s.so_ performer he stood with his fellow-artist at the rear of the platform facing the dancing floor, and no sooner had Professor l.u.s.thaus's baton directed the first few measures than Milton's imitation grew spiritless. He had espied a little girl in white with eyes that flashed her enjoyment of the dreamy rhythm. Her cheeks glowed and her lips were parted, while her tiny gloved hand rested like a flower on the shoulder of her partner. They waltzed half-time, as the vernacular has it, and to Milton it seemed like the apotheosis of the dance. He gazed wide-eyed at the fascinating scene and was only brought to himself when the drummer poked him in the ribs with the b.u.t.t end of the drumstick. For the remainder of the waltz he performed discreetly on the music-stand and his fingers chased themselves up and down the strings with lifelike rapidity.

”Hey, youse,” Professor l.u.s.thaus hissed after he had laid down his baton, ”what yer trying to do? Queer the whole thing? Hey?”

”I thought I--now--seen a friend of mine,” Milton said lamely.

”Oh, yer did, did yer?” Professor l.u.s.thaus retorted. ”Well, when you play with this here orchestra you want to remember you ain't got a friend in the world, see?”

Milton nodded.

”And, furthermore,” the Professor concluded, ”make some more breaks like that and see what'll happen you.”

Waltzes and two-steps succeeded each other with monotonous regularity until the grand march for supper was announced. For three years Ferdy Rothman had been chairman of the entertainment and floor committee of Harmony Lodge I.O.M.A.'s annual ball, and he was a virtuoso in the intricate art of arranging a grand march to supper. His aids were six in number, and as Ferdy marched up the ballroom floor they were standing with their backs to the music platform ten paces apart. When Ferdy arrived at the foot of the platform he faced about and split the line of marching couples. The ladies wheeled sharply to the right and the gentlemen to the left, and thereafter began a series of evolutions which, in the mere witnessing, would have given a blacksnake lumbago.