Elkan Lubliner, American. Glass Montague
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thousand buttons!" Scheikowitz cried. "You are making a big fuss about nothing at all."
But when the next day Polatkin and Scheikowitz heard that Gifkin had found employment with their closest competitors Philip began to regret the haste with which he had discharged his assistant cutter, and he bore his partner's upbraidings in chastened silence. Thus by Friday afternoon Polatkin had exhausted his indignation.
"Well, Philip," he said as closing-time approached, "it ain't no use crying over sour milk. What time does the boat arrive?"
"To-night," Philip replied, "and the passengers comes off the island to-morrow. Why did you ask?"
"Because," Marcus said with the suspicion of a blush, "Saturday ain't such a busy day and I was thinking I would go over with you. Might I could help you out."
Philip's trip with his partner to Ellis Island the following morning tried his temper to the point where he could barely refrain from inquiring if the expected immigrant were his relation or Polatkin's, for during the entire journey Marcus busied himself making plans for the Borrochsons' future.
"The first thing you got to look out for with a greenhorn, Philip," he said, "is that you learn 'em good the English language. If a feller couldn't talk he couldn't do nothing, understand me, so with the young feller especially you shouldn't give him no encouragement to keep on talking Manerloschen." Philip nodded politely.
"Look at me for instance," Marcus continued; "six months after I landed, Philip, I am speaking English already just so good as a doctor or a lawyer. And how did I done it? To night school I am going only that they should learn me to write, verstehst du, aber right at the start old man Feinrubin takes me in hand and he talks to me only in English. And if I am understanding him, schon gut; and if I don't understand him then he gives me a potch on the side of the head, Philip, which the next time he says it I could understand him good. And that's the way you should do with the young feller, Philip. I bet yer he would a damsight sooner learn English as get a Schlag every ten minutes."
Again Philip nodded, and by the time they had arrived at the enclosure for the relations of immigrants he had become so accustomed to the hum of Marcus' conversation that he refrained from uttering even a perfunctory "Uh-huh." They sat on a hard bench for more than half an hour, while the attendants bawled the common surnames of every country from Ireland to Asiatic Turkey, and at length the name Borrochson brought Philip to his feet. He rushed to the gateway, followed by Marcus, just as a stunted lad of fifteen emerged, staggering under the burden of a huge cloth-covered bundle.
"Uncle Philip," the lad cried, dropping the bundle. Then clutching Marcus round the neck he showered kisses on his cheeks until Philip dragged him away.
"I am your uncle," Philip said in Jüdisch Deutsch. "Where is your father?"
Without answering the question Yosel Borrochson took a stranglehold of Philip and subjected him to a second and more violent osculation. It was some minutes before Philip could disengage himself from his nephew's embrace and then he led him none too gently to a seat.
"Never mind the kissing," he said; "where's your father?"
"He is not here," Yosel Borrochson replied with a vivid blush.
"I see he is not here," Philip rejoined. "Where is he?"
"He is in Minsk," said young Borrochson.
"In Minsk?" Philip and Marcus cried with one voice, and then Marcus sat down on the bench and rocked to and fro in an ecstasy of mirth.
"In Minsk!" he gasped hysterically, and slapped his thighs by way of giving expression to his emotions. "Did you ever hear the like?"
"Polatkin, do me the favour," Philip begged, "and don't make a damn fool of yourself."
"What did I told you?" Polatkin retorted, but Philip turned to his nephew.
"What did your father do with the ticket and the money I sent him?" he asked.
"He sold the ticket and he used all the money for the wedding," the boy replied.
"The wedding?" Philip exclaimed. "What wedding?"
"The wedding with the widow," said the boy.
"The widow?" Philip and Marcus shouted in unison. "What widow?"
"The landlord's widow," the boy answered shyly.
And then as there seemed nothing else to do he buried his face in his hands and wept aloud.
"Nu, Philip," Marcus said, sitting down beside young Borrochson, "could the boy help it if his father is a Ganef?"
Philip made no reply, and presently Marcus stooped and picked up the bundle.
"Come," he said gently, "let's go up to the store."
The journey uptown was not without its unpleasant features, for the size of the bundle not only barred them from both subway and elevated, but provoked a Broadway car conductor to exhibit what Marcus considered to be so biased and illiberal an attitude toward unrestricted immigration that he barely avoided a cerebral hemorrhage in resenting it. They finally prevailed on the driver of a belt-line car to accept them as passengers, and nearly half an hour elapsed before they arrived at Desbrosses Street; but after a dozen conductors in turn had declined to honour their transfer tickets they made the rest of their journey on foot.
Philip and young Borrochson carried the offending bundle, for Marcus flatly declined to assist them. Indeed with every block his enthusiasm waned, so that when they at length reached Wooster Street his feelings toward his partner's nephew had undergone a complete change.
"Don't fetch that thing in here," he said as Philip and young Borrochson entered the showroom with the bundle; "leave it in the shop. You got no business to bring the young feller up here in the first place."
"What do you mean bring him up here?" Philip cried. "If you wouldn't butt in at all I intended to take him to my sister's a cousin on Pitt Street."
Marcus threw his hat on a sample table and sat down heavily.
"That's all the gratitude I am getting!" he declared with bitter emphasis. "Right in the busy season I dropped everything to help you out, and you turn on me like this."
He rose to his feet suddenly, and seizing the bundle with both hands he flung it violently through the doorway.
"Take him to Pitt Street," he said. "Take him to the devil for all I care. I am through with him."
But Philip conducted his nephew no farther than round the corner on Canal Street, and when an hour later Yosel Borrochson returned with his uncle his top-boots had been discarded forever, while his wrinkled, semi-military garb had been exchanged for a neat suit of Oxford gray. Moreover, both he and Philip had consumed a hearty meal of coffee and rolls and were accordingly prepared to take a more cheerful outlook upon life, especially Philip.
"Bleib du hier," he said as he led young Borrochson to a chair in the cutting room. "Ich Komm bald zurück."
Then mindful of his partner's advice he broke into English. "Shtay here," he repeated in loud, staccato accents. "I would be right back. Verstehst du?"
"Yess-ss," Yosel replied, uttering his first word of English.
With a delighted grin Philip walked to the showroom, where Polatkin sat wiping away the crumbs of a belated luncheon of two dozen zwieback and a can of coffee.
"Nu," he said conciliatingly, "what is it now?"
"Marcus," Philip began with a nod of his head in the direction of the cutting room, "I want to show you something a picture."
"A picture!" Polatkin repeated as he rose to his feet. "What do you mean a picture?"
"Come," Philip said; "I'll show you."
He led the way to the cutting room, where Yosel sat awaiting his uncle's return.
"What