id society in
your store?"

"I hope you ain't getting deef, Birsky," Feigenbaum replied.

"And you agreed to that?" Zapp cried.

"I certainly did," Feigenbaum said; "which, as I told you before, I am
coming to believe that this here mutual aid society business is an
elegant thing already, boys. And Eschenbach tells me I should tell you
that if he don't get here by next Sunday you should warm up that
pitcher and catcher of yours, as he would sure get down to New York by
the Sunday after."

Birsky led the way to the showroom with the detached air of a
somnambulist, while Zapp came stumbling after.

"And one thing I want to impress on you boys," Feigenbaum concluded:
"you want to do all you can to jolly the old boy along, understand me,
on account I might want to raise ten or fifteen thousand dollars from
him for some alterations I got in mind."

* * * * *

"Zapp," Birsky cried after he had ushered Feigenbaum into the elevator
at ten minutes to eleven, "I am going right over to the Kosciusko Bank
and----"

"What are you going to do?" Zapp cried in alarm, "transfer back that
five hundred dollars after what Feigenbaum tells us?"

"Transfer nothing!" Birsky retorted. "I am going over to the Kosciusko
Bank, understand me, and I am going to change that account. So, when
them _Roshoyim_ come in here, Zapp, tell 'em to wait till I get back.
By hook or by crook we must got to get 'em to come to work by to-morrow
sure, the way we would be rushed here--even if we must pay 'em a
hundred dollars apiece!"

Zapp nodded fervently.

"_Aber_ why must you got to go over to the bank now, Birsky?" he
insisted.

"Because I don't want to take no more chances," Birsky replied; "which
I would not only put in the 'as,' understand me, but I would write on
the bank's signature card straight up and down what the thing really
is"--he coughed impressively to emphasize the announcement--"Louis
Birsky," he said, "as Treasurer of the Mutual Aid Society Employees of
Birsky & Zapp!"

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE MOVING PICTURE WRITES

When Max Schindelberger opened the door leading into the office of
Lesengeld & Belz his manner was that of the local millionaire's wife
bearing delicacies to a bedridden laundress, for Max felt that he was
slumming.

"Is Mr. Lesengeld disengaged?" he asked in the rotund voice of one
accustomed to being addressed as Brother President three nights out of
every week,