Part 29 (1/2)
”Her father ain't in partners.h.i.+p with n.o.body,” Milton rejoined. ”His name is Maximilian Levy and he owns a whole lot of property.”
At this juncture Miss Levy herself poked her head through the doorway.
”Milton,” she cried sharply, ”ain't you got something to do? Because if you haven't there are a lot of cutting slips to be made out.”
Charles Zwiebel's face spread into a broad grin. ”Go ahead, Milton,” he said, ”and attend to business. I'll wait here till Rothman comes in.”
Ten minutes later Levy Rothman entered. He greeted Zwiebel with a scowl and glared around the empty sample-room.
”Well, Zwiebel,” he growled, ”what d'ye want now?”
”Oh, nothing,” Zwiebel replied blandly. ”I thought I'd step in and see how my Milton was getting along.”
”You see how he is getting along,” Rothman said. ”He ain't here at all.
That feller takes an hour for his lunch every day.”
Zwiebel drew a cigar out of his pocket and licked it reflectively.
”So,” he said, ”you couldn't do no better with him than that, hey?
Well, Rothman, I guess it ain't no use fooling away your time any more.
Give me my five thousand dollars and I will take back the boy into my business again.”
Rothman turned pale.
”If you would let the boy stay here a while,” he suggested, ”he would turn out all right, maybe.”
”What's the matter?” Zwiebel asked. ”Ain't you got the five thousand handy?”
”The five thousand is nothing,” Rothman retorted. ”You could get your five thousand whenever you want it. The fact is, Zwiebel, while the boy is a low-life, y'understand, I take an interest in that boy and I want to see if I couldn't succeed in making a man of him.”
Mr. Zwiebel waved his hand with the palm outward.
”'S all right, Rothman,” he said. ”You shouldn't put yourself to all that trouble. You done enough for the boy, and I'm sure I'm thankful to you. Besides, I'm sick of fooling away fifteen dollars every week.”
Rothman shrugged his shoulders.
”Nah!” he said. ”Keep the fifteen dollars, I will pay him the fifteen dollars out of my own pocket.”
”But the boy is all the time complaining, Rothman, he couldn't live on fifteen dollars a week.”
”All right, I'll give him twenty.”
Zwiebel rose to his feet.
”You will, hey?” he roared. ”You couldn't get that boy for fifty, Rothman, nor a hundred, neither, because I knew it all along, Rothman, and I always said it, that boy is a natural-born business man, y'understand, and next week I shall go to work and buy a cloak and suit business and put him into it. And that's all I got to say to you.”
Maximilian Levy, real-estate operator, sat in his private office and added up figures on the back of an envelope. As he did so, Charles Zwiebel entered.