Part 27 (2/2)

”Say, Miss Levy,” he said, ”who's that curly-haired young feller? Ain't he the one I seen you dancing with last night?”

”Sure he is,” Miss Levy replied.

”I thought he was,” Milton commented. ”And wasn't he one of them--now--floor managers?”

”Ain't you nosy?” Miss Levy answered as she swept all the torn paper on her desk into her ap.r.o.n.

”Well, wasn't he?” Milton insisted.

”Suppose he was?” she retorted. ”All _you've_ got to do is to mail these letters and be sure to get down at half-past seven sharp to-morrow morning.”

”Do you get here at half-past seven?” he asked.

”I certainly do,” Miss Levy replied.

”All right,” he said, as he gathered up the mail, ”I'll be here.”

Thus began the regeneration of Milton Zwiebel, for he soon perceived that to Miss Clara Levy a box of candy was not nearly so acceptable a token of his esteem as was a cheerful dusting of the sample stock.

Moreover, he discovered that it pleased Miss Levy to hear him talk intelligently of the style-numbers and their prices, and it was not long before he became as familiar with his employer's line as was Miss Levy herself. As for his punctuality, it soon became a habit, and every morning at half-past six he ate a hurried breakfast and left the house long before the elder Zwiebel had concluded his toilet.

”I couldn't understand it, mommer,” said Mr. Zwiebel, after Milton had completed the sixth month of his employment with Levy Rothman. ”That boy goes downtown every morning, mommer, before daylight practically, y'understand. He don't get home till half-past seven, and he stays home pretty near every night, mommer, and that feller Rothman kicks yet.

Always he tells me the boy ain't worth a pinch of snuff and he wants I shouldn't charge him no interest on that five thousand.”

”That's something I couldn't understand, neither,” Mrs. Zwiebel replied.

”I ask Milton always how he gets along, and he tells me he is doing fine.”

”The boy tells me the same thing,” Zwiebel continued, ”and yet that young feller, Ferdy Rothman, comes up to see me about getting a check for Milton's wages, and he says to me the boy acts like a regular lowlife.”

”Why don't you speak to Milton?” Mrs. Zwiebel broke in.

”I did speak to him, mommer,” Zwiebel declared, ”and the boy looks at me so surprised that I couldn't say nothing. Also, I speaks to this here Ferdy Rothman, mommer, and he says that the boy acts something terrible. He says that Rothman's got a bookkeeper, y'understand, a decent, respectable young woman, and that Milton makes that girl's life miserable the way he's all the time talking to her and making jokes.

Such a loafer what that boy is I couldn't understand at all.”

He sighed heavily and went downtown to his place of business. On the subway he opened wide the _Tobacco Trade Journal_, thrust his legs forward into the aisle, and grew oblivious to his surroundings in perusing the latest quotations of leaf tobacco.

”Why don't you hire it a special car?” a ba.s.s voice cried as its owner stumbled over Zwiebel's feet.

”Excuse me,” Zwiebel exclaimed, looking up. ”Excuse me, Mr. Feigenbaum.

I didn't see you coming.”

”Oh, h.e.l.lo there, Zwiebel!” Feigenbaum cried, extending two fingers and sinking into the adjacent seat. ”How's the rope business?”

”I ain't in the rope business, Mr. Feigenbaum,” Zwiebel said coldly.

”Ain't you?” Feigenbaum replied. ”I thought you was. I see your boy every oncet in a while down at Rothman's, and he hands me out a piece of rope which he gets from your place, Zwiebel. I take it from him to please him.”

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