ne of Rothman's
stickers to a doubtful customer from Bradford County, Pennsylvania.

"Hello, pop!" Milton cried. "Too busy to talk to you now. Take a seat."

"Where's Rothman?" Zwiebel asked.

"Out to lunch," Milton replied. "I'll be through in a minute."

Zwiebel watched his son in silence until the sale was consummated, and
after Milton had shaken the departing customer's hand he turned to his
father.

"Well, pop," he said, "this is the first time you've been up here since
I've been here, ain't it?"

Zwiebel nodded.

"I wish I would of come up here before," he said. "Say, Milton, who is
this here Miss Levy what works here?"

Milton blushed.

"She's in the office," he murmured. "Why, what do you want to know
for?"

"Well, I met Henry Feigenbaum in the car this morning," Zwiebel went
on, "and he was telling me about her. He says she comes from a family
what him and me knows in the old country. The father drove a truck
already."

"That's where you make a big mistake," Milton cried indignantly. "Her
father's in the real-estate business and pretty well fixed at that."

Mr. Zwiebel smiled.

"That must be Simon Levy, the feller what owns a couple houses with
that shark Henochstein. Ain't it?" he hazarded.

"Her father ain't in partnership with nobody," 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