Elkan Lubliner, American. Glass Montague
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so good a cutter as anybody."
At this juncture Polatkin raised his hand with the palm outward.
"Stop right there, Scheikowitz," he said. "You are making a fool of yourself, Scheikowitz, because, Scheikowitz, admitting for the sake of no arguments about it that the boy is a good boy, understand me, after all he's only a boy, ain't it, and if you are coming to make a sixteen-year-old boy an assistant cutter, y'understand, the least that we could expect is that our customers fires half our goods back at us."
"But – " Scheikowitz began.
"But, nothing, Scheikowitz," Polatkin interrupted. "This morning I seen it Meyer Gifkin on Canal Street and he ain't working for them suckers no more; and I says to him is he willing to come back here at the same wages, and he says yes, providing you would see that this here feller Borrochson wouldn't pretty near kill him."
"What do you mean pretty near kill him?" Scheikowitz cried. "Do you mean to say he is afraid of a boy like Joe Borrochson?"
"Not Joe Borrochson," Polatkin replied. "He is all the time thinking that your brother-in-law Borrochson comes over here with his boy and is working in our place yet, and when I told him that that crook didn't come over at all Meyer says that's the first he hears about it or he would have asked for his job back long since already. So he says he would come in here to see us this afternoon."
"But – " Scheikowitz began again.
"Furthermore," Polatkin continued hastily, "if I would got a nephew in my place, Scheikowitz, I would a damsight sooner he stays working on the stock till he knows enough to sell goods on the road as that he learns to be a cutter. Ain't it?"
Scheikowitz sighed heavily by way of surrender.
"All right, Polatkin," he said; "if you're so dead set on taking this here feller Gifkin back go ahead. But one thing I must got to tell you: If you are taking a feller back which you fired once, understand me, he acts so independent you couldn't do nothing with him at all."
"Leave that to me," Polatkin said, as he started for the cutting room, and when Scheikowitz followed him he found that Gifkin had already arrived.
"Wie gehts, Mister Scheikowitz?" Gifkin cried, and Philip received the salutation with a distant nod.
"I hope you don't hold no hard feelings for me," Gifkin began.
"Me hold hard feelings for you?" Scheikowitz exclaimed. "I guess you forget yourself, Gifkin. A boss don't hold no hard feelings for a feller which is working in the place, Gifkin; otherwise the feller gets fired and stays fired, Gifkin."
At this juncture Polatkin in the rôle of peacemaker created a diversion.
"Joe," he called to young Borrochson, who was passing the cutting-room door, "come in here a minute."
He turned to Gifkin as Joe entered.
"I guess you seen this young feller before?" he said.
Gifkin looked hard at Joe for a minute.
"I think I seen him before somewheres," he replied.
"Sure you seen him before," Polatkin rejoined. "His name is Borrochson."
"Borrochson!" Gifkin cried, and Joe, whose colour had heightened at the close scrutiny to which he had been subjected, began to grow pale.
"Sure, Yosel Borrochson, the son of your old neighbour," Polatkin explained, but Gifkin shook his head slowly.
"That ain't Yosel Borrochson," he declared, and then it was that Polatkin and Scheikowitz first noticed Joe's embarrassment. Indeed even as they gazed at him his features worked convulsively once or twice and he dropped unconscious to the floor.
In the scene of excitement that ensued Gifkin's avowed discovery was temporarily forgotten, but when Joe was again restored to consciousness Polatkin drew Gifkin aside and requested an explanation.
"What do you mean the boy ain't Yosel Borrochson?" he demanded.
"I mean the boy ain't Yosel Borrochson," Gifkin replied deliberately. "I know this here boy, Mr. Polatkin, and, furthermore, Borrochson's boy is got one bum eye, which he gets hit with a stone in it when he was only four years old already. Don't I know it, Mr. Polatkin, when with my own eyes I seen this here boy throw the stone yet?"
"Well, then, who is this boy?" Marcus Polatkin insisted.
"He's a boy by the name Lubliner," Gifkin replied, "which his father was Pincus Lubliner, also a crook, Mr. Polatkin, which he would steal anything from a toothpick to an oitermobile, understand me."
"Pincus Lubliner!" Polatkin repeated hoarsely.
"That's who I said," Gifkin continued, rushing headlong to his destruction. "Pincus Lubliner, which honestly, Mr. Polatkin, there's nothing that feller wouldn't do – a regular Rosher if ever there was one."
For one brief moment Polatkin's eyes flashed angrily, and then with a resounding smack his open hand struck Gifkin's cheek.
"Liar!" he shouted. "What do you mean by it?"
Scheikowitz, who had been tenderly bathing Joe Borrochson's head with water, rushed forward at the sound of the blow.
"Marcus," he cried, "for Heaven's sake, what are you doing? You shouldn't kill the feller just because he makes a mistake and thinks the boy ain't Joe Borrochson."
"He makes too many mistakes," Polatkin roared. "Calls Pincus Lubliner a crook and a murderer yet, which his mother was my own father's a sister. Did you ever hear the like?"
He made a threatening gesture toward Gifkin, who cowered in a chair.
"Say, lookyhere, Marcus," Scheikowitz asked, "what has Pincus Lubliner got to do with this?"
"He's got a whole lot to do with it," Marcus replied, and then his eyes rested on Joe Borrochson, who had again lapsed into unconsciousness.
"Oo-ee!" Marcus cried. "The poor boy is dead."
He swept Philip aside and ran to the water-cooler, whence he returned with the drip-bucket brimming over. This he emptied on Joe Borrochson's recumbent form, and after a quarter of an hour the recovery was permanent. In the meantime Philip had interviewed Meyer Gifkin to such good purpose that when he entered the firm's office with Meyer Gifkin at his heels he was fairly spluttering with rage.
"Thief!" he yelled. "Out of here before I make you arrested."
"Who the devil you think you are talking to?" Marcus demanded.
"I am talking to Joseph Borrochson," Scheikowitz replied. "That's who I'm talking to."
"Well, there ain't no such person here," Polatkin retorted. "There's here only a young fellow by the name Elkan Lubliner, which he is my own father's sister a grandson, and he ain't no more a thief as you are."
"Ain't he?" Philip retorted. "Well, all I can say is he is a thief and his whole family is thieves, the one worser as the other."
Marcus glowered at his partner.
"You should be careful what you are speaking about," he said. "Maybe you ain't aware that this here boy's grandfather on his father's side was Reb Mosha, the big Lubliner Rav, a Chosid and a Tzadek if ever there was one."
"What difference does that make?" Philip demanded. "He is stealing my brother-in-law's passage ticket anyhow."
"I didn't steal it," the former Joseph Borrochson cried. "My father paid him good money for it, because Borrochson says he wanted it to marry the widow with; and you also I am paying a hundred dollars."
"Yow! Your father paid him good money for it!" Philip jeered. "A Ganef like your father is stealing the money, too, I bet yer."
"Oser a Stück," Polatkin declared. "I am sending him the money myself to help bury his aunt, Mrs. Lebowitz."
"You sent him the money?" Philip cried. "And your own partner you didn't tell nothing about it at all!"
"What is it your business supposing I am sending money to the old country?" Marcus retorted. "Do you ask me an advice when you are sending away money to the old country?"
"But