Elkan Lubliner, American. Glass Montague
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Gifkin which he is working for us now two years, Scheikowitz, and a decent, respectable feller," Polatkin said relentlessly. "If Gifkin tells you something you could rely on it, Scheikowitz, and he is telling me he lives in Minsk one house by the other with this feller Borrochson, and such a lowlife gambler bum as this here feller Borrochson is you wouldn't believe at all."
"Meyer Gifkin says that?" Philip gasped.
"So sure as he is working here as assistant cutter," Polatkin continued. "And if you think that this here feller Borrochson comes to work in our place, Scheikowitz, you've got another think coming, and that's all I got to say."
But Philip had not waited to hear the conclusion of his partner's ultimatum, and by the time Polatkin had finished Philip was at the threshold of the cutting room.
"Gifkin!" he bellowed. "I want to ask you something a question."
The assistant cutter laid down his shears.
"What could I do for you, Mr. Scheikowitz?" he said respectfully.
"You could put on your hat and coat and get out of here before I kick you out," Philip replied without disclosing the nature of his abandoned question. "And, furthermore, if my brother-in-law Borrochson is such a lowlife bum which you say he is, when he is coming here Saturday he would pretty near kill you, because, Gifkin, a lowlife gambler and a thief could easily be a murderer too. Aber if he ain't a such thief and gambler which you say he is, then I would make you arrested."
"Me arrested?" Gifkin cried. "What for?"
"Because for calling some one a thief which he ain't one you could sit in prison," Scheikowitz concluded. "So you should get right out of here before I am sending for a policeman."
"But, Mr. Scheikowitz," Gifkin protested, "who did I told it your brother-in-law is a thief and a gambler?"
"You know very well who you told it," Scheikowitz retorted. "You told it my partner, Gifkin. That's who you told it."
"But I says to him he shouldn't tell nobody," Gifkin continued. "Is it my fault your partner is such a Klatsch? And, anyhow, Mr. Scheikowitz, supposing I did say your brother-in-law is a gambler and a thief, I know what I'm talking about; and, furthermore, if I got to work in a place where I couldn't open my mouth at all, Mr. Scheikowitz, I don't want to work there, and that's all there is to it."
He assumed his hat and coat in so dignified a manner that for the moment Scheikowitz felt as though he were losing an old and valued employee, and this impression was subsequently heightened by Polatkin's behaviour when he heard of Gifkin's departure. Indeed a casual observer might have supposed that Polatkin's wife, mother, and ten children had all perished in a common disaster and that the messenger had been indiscreet in breaking the news, for during a period of almost half an hour Polatkin rocked and swayed in his chair and beat his forehead with his clenched fist.
"You are shedding my blood," he moaned to Scheikowitz.
"What the devil you are talking nonsense!" Scheikowitz declared. "The way you are acting you would think we are paying the feller five thousand dollars a year instead of fifteen dollars a week."
"It ain't what a feller makes from you, Scheikowitz; it's what you make from him what counts," he wailed. "Gifkin was really worth to us a year five thousand dollars."
"Five 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