"Mr. Lubliner," he cried, "could I speak to you a few words something?"
Elkan rose and slammed the door.
"Say, lookyhere, Merech," he said, "if you want a raise don't let the whole factory know about it, otherwise we would be pestered to death here. Remember, also," he continued as he sat down again, "you are only working for us a few weeks – and don't go so quick as all that."
"What d'ye mean, a raise?" Max asked. "I ain't said nothing at all about a raise. I am coming to see you about something entirely different already."
Elkan looked ostentatiously at his watch.
"I ain't got too much time, Merech," he said.
"Nobody's got too much time when it comes to fellers asking for raises, Mr. Lubliner," Max retorted; "aber this here is something else again, as I told you."
"Well, don't beat no bushes round, Merech!" Elkan cried impatiently. "What is it you want from me?"
"I want from you this," Max began huskily: "Might you know Tschaikovsky maybe oder Rimsky-Korsakoff."
"Tschaikovsky I never heard of," Elkan replied, "nor the other concern neither. Must be new beginners in the garment business – ain't it?"
"They never was in the garment business, so far as I know," Max continued; "aber they made big successes even if they wasn't, because all the money ain't in the garment business, Mr. Lubliner, and Tschaikovsky and Rimsky-Korsakoff, even in the old country, made so much money they lived in palaces yet. Once when I was a boy already, Tschaikovsky comes to Minsk and they got up a parade for him – such a big Macher he was!"
"I don't doubt your word for a minute, Merech; aber what is all this got to do mit me?"
"It ain't got nothing to do with you, Mr. Lubliner," Max declared – "only I got a friend by the name Boris Volkovisk, and believe me or not, Mr. Lubliner, in some respects Tschaikovsky and Rimsky-Korsakoff could learn from that feller, because, you could take it from me, Mr. Lubliner, there's some passages in the Fifth Symphony, understand me, which I hate to say it you could call rotten!"
Elkan stirred uneasily in his chair.
"I don't know what you are talking about at all," he said.
"I am talking about this," Max replied; and therewith he began to explain to Elkan the aspirations and talent of Boris Volkovisk and his – Max' – scheme for their successful development. For more than half an hour he unfolded a plan by which one thousand dollars might be judiciously expended so as to secure the maximum benefit to Volkovisk's career – a plan that during the preceding two years Volkovisk and he had thoroughly discussed over many a cup of coffee in Marculescu's café. "And so you see, Mr. Lubliner," he concluded, "it's a plain business proposition; and if you was to take for your thousand dollars, say, for example, a one-tenth interest in the business Volkovisk expects to do, understand me, you would get a big return for your investment."
Elkan lit a cigar and puffed away reflectively before speaking.
"Nu," he said at last; "so that is what you wanted to talk to me about?"
Max nodded.
"Well, then, all I could say is," Elkan went on, "you are coming to the wrong shop. A business proposition like that is for a banker, which he is got so much money he don't know what to do with it, Merech."
Max' face fell and he turned disconsolately away.
"At the same time, Max," Elkan added, "I ain't feeling sore that you come to me with the proposition, understand me. The trouble ain't with you that you got such an idee, Max; the trouble is with me that I couldn't see it. It's like a feller by the name Dalzell, a buyer for Kammerman's store, says to me this morning. 'Lubliner,' he says, 'I couldn't afford to take no chances buying highgrade garments from a feller that is used to making a popular-price line,' he says, 'because no matter how well equipped your factory would be the trouble is a popular-price manufacturer couldn't think big enough to turn out expensive garments. To such a manufacturer goods at two dollars a yard is the limit, and goods at ten dollars a yard he couldn't imagine at all. And even if he could induce himself to use stuff at ten dollars a yard, y'understand, it goes against him to be liberal with such high-priced goods, so he skimps the garment.'"
He blew a great cloud of smoke as a substitute for a sigh.
"And Dalzell was right, Max," he concluded. "You couldn't expect that a garment manufacturer like me is going to got such big idees as investing a thousand dollars in a highgrade scheme like yours. With me a thousand dollars means so many yards piece goods, so many sewing machines or a week's payroll; aber it don't mean giving a musician a show he should compose highgrade music. I ain't educated up to it, Max; so I wish you luck that you should raise the money somewheres else."
When M. Sidney Benson entered his office in the Siddons Theatre Building late that afternoon he found Jassy seated at his desk in the mournful contemplation of some music manuscript.
"Nu, Milton," Benson cried, "you shouldn't look so rachmonos. I surely think I got 'em coming!"
"You think you got 'em coming!" Jassy repeated with bitter emphasis. "You said that a dozen times already – and always the feller wasn't so big a sucker like he looked!"
"That was because I didn't work it right," Benson replied. "This time I am making out to do the feller a favour by letting him in on the show, and right away he becomes interested. His name is Elkan Lubliner, a manufacturer by cloaks and suits, and to-night he is coming down with his wife yet, and you are going to take 'em round to the 'Diners Out.'"
"I am going to the 'Diners Out' mit 'em?" Milton ejaculated with every inflection of horror and disgust.
"Sure!" Benson replied cheerfully. "Six dollars it'll cost us, because Ryan pretty near laughs in my face when I asked him for three seats. But never mind, Milton, it'll be worth the money."
"Will it?" Jassy retorted. "Well, not for me, Mr. Benson. Why, the last time I seen that show I says I wouldn't sit through it again for a hundred dollars."
"A hundred dollars is a lot of money, Milton," Benson said. "Aber I think if you work it right you will get a hundred times a hundred dollars before we are through, on account I really got this feller going. So you should listen to me and I would tell you just what you want to say to the feller between the acts."
Therewith Benson commenced to unfold a series of "talking points" which he had spent the entire day in formulating; and, as he proceeded, Jassy's eyes wandered from the title page of the manuscript music inscribed "Opus 47 – Trio in G moll," and began to glow in sympathy with Benson's well-laid plan.
"There's no use shilly-shallying, Milton," Benson concluded. "The season is getting late, and if we're ever going to put on that show now is the time."
Milton nodded eagerly.
"Aber why don't you take 'em to the show yourself, Mr. Benson?" he asked hopefully. "Because, not to jolly you at all, Mr. Benson, I must got to say it you are a wonderful talker."
Benson shrugged his shoulders and smiled weakly.
"I am a wonderful talker, I admit," he agreed; "but I got a hard face, Milton, whereas you, anyhow, look honest. So you should meet me at Hanley's afterward, understand me, and we would try to close the deal there and then."
He dug his hand into his trousers pocket and produced a modest roll of bills, from which he detached six dollars.
"Here is the money," he added, "and you should be here to meet them people at eight o'clock sharp."
On the stroke of eight Milton Jassy returned to Benson's office in the Siddons Theatre Building and again seated himself at his desk in front of the pile of manuscript music. This time, however, he brushed aside the title page of his Opus 47 and spread out an evening paper to beguile the tedium of awaiting Benson's "prospects." Automatically he turned to the department headed Music and Musicians, and at the top of the column his eye fell on the following item:
Ferencz Lánczhid, the Budapest virtuoso, will be the soloist at the concert this evening of the Philharmonic Society. He will play the Tschaikovsky Violin Concerto, Opus 35, and the remainder of the program will consist of Dvorák's Symphony, Aus der Neuen Welt, and the ever-popular Meistersinger Overture.
Jassy heaved a tremulous sigh as he concluded the paragraph and leaned back in his chair, while in his ears sounded the adagio passage that introduces the first movement of the "New World Symphony." Simultaneously the occupant of the next office slammed down his rolltop desk and began to whistle a lively popular melody. It was "Wildcat Rag," and Milton struck the outspread newspaper with his clenched fist. Then rising to his feet he gathered together the loose pages of his "Opus 47" and placed them tenderly in a leather case just as the door opened and Elkan and Yetta entered.
"I hope we ain't late," Elkan said.
"Not at all," Milton replied. "This is Mr. and Mrs. Lubliner – ain't it?"
As he drew forward a chair for Yetta he saluted his visitors with a slight, graceful bow, a survival of his conservatory days.
"Sit down," he said; "we got lots and lots of time."
"I thought the show started at a quarter-past eight – ain't it?" Elkan asked.
"It does and it doesn't," Milton replied hesitatingly; "that is to say, some shows start at a quarter-past eight and others not till half-past eight."
"But I mean this here 'Diners Out' starts at a quarter-past eight – ain't it?" Elkan insisted.
"'The Diners Out!'" Milton exclaimed as though he heard the name for the first time. "Oh, sure, the 'Diners Out' starts at a quarter-past eight, and that's just what I wanted to talk to you about."
He turned to Yetta with an engaging smile which, with his black hair and his dark, melancholy eyes, completely won over that far from unimpressionable lady.
"Now, Mrs. Lubliner," he began, "your husband is a business man – ain't it? And if some one comes to him and says, 'Mr. Lubliner, I got here two garments for the same price – say, for example, two dollars. One of 'em is made of cheap material, aber plenty of it mit cheap embroidery on it, understand me; while the other is from finest silk a garment – not much of it, y'understand, but plain and beautiful.'"
"What for a garment could you got for two dollars?" Elkan asked – "especially a silk garment?"
"He's only saying for example, Elkan," Yetta interrupted.
"Garments I am only using, so to speak," Milton explained. "What I really mean is: You got your choice to go to a popular show like the 'Diners Out' or to a really highgrade show, Mr. Lubliner. So I leave it to you, Mr. Lubliner. Which shall it be?"
Once again he smiled at Yetta.
"Why, to the highgrade show, sure," Yetta replied, and she seized her husband by the arm. "Come along, Elkan!" she cried; and after Milton had secured the leather portfolio containing his "Opus 47" they proceeded immediately to the elevator.
"We could walk over there from here," Milton said when they reached the sidewalk, and he led the way across town toward Carnegie Hall.
"What for a show is this we are going to see?" Elkan asked. "Also a musical show?"
Milton nodded.
"The best musical show there is," he declared. "Do you like maybe to hear good music?"
"I'm crazy about it," Yetta replied.
"Symphonies, concerti and such things?" Milton inquired.
"Symphonies?" Elkan repeated. "What is symphonies?"
"I couldn't explain it to you," Milton said, "because we ain't got time; aber you would see for yourself. Only one thing I must tell you, Mr. Lubliner – when the orchestra plays you shouldn't speak nothing – Mrs. Lubliner neither."
"I wouldn't open my mouth at all," Elkan assured him solemnly; and a few minutes later Milton seated himself in the last row of the parterre at Carnegie Hall, with Elkan and Yetta – one each side of him.
"So you ain't never been to a symphony concert before?" Milton began, leaning toward Elkan; and, as the latter shook his head, a short, stout person in the adjoining seat raised his eyebrows involuntarily. "Well, you got a big pleasure in store for you," Milton went on; "and another thing I must got to tell you: Might you would hear some pretty jumpy music which you would want to keep time to mit your foot. Don't you do it!"
Elkan's neighbour concealed a smile with one hand, and then, he, too, turned to Elkan, who had received Milton's warning with a sulky frown.
"You're friend is right," he said. "People always have to be told that the first time they go to a symphony concert; and the next time they go they not only see the wisdom of such advice, but they want to get up and lick the man that does beat time with his foot."
He accompanied his remark with so gracious a smile that Elkan's frown immediately relaxed.
"A new beginner couldn't get too much advice," he said, and his neighbour leaned farther forward and addressed Milton.
"You've chosen a fine program to introduce your friend to good music with," he said; and therewith began a lively conversation that lasted until a round of applause signalized the appearance of the conductor. The next moment he raised his baton and the celli began to sigh the mournful phrase which ushers in the symphony. Milton leaned back luxuriously as the woodwind commenced the next phrase; and then, while the introduction ended with a sweeping crescendo and the tempo suddenly increased, Elkan sat up and his eyes became fixed on the trombone and trumpet players.
He maintained this attitude throughout the entire first movement, and it was not until the conductor's arm fell motionless at his side that he settled back in his seat.
"Well," Milton asked, "what do you think of it?"
"A-Number-One!" Elkan answered hoarsely. "It would suit me just so well if it would last the whole evening and we wouldn't have no singing and dancing at all."
"What do you mean – no singing and dancing!" Milton exclaimed.
"Sure!" Elkan continued. "I wish them fellers would play the whole evening."
The conductor tapped his desk with his baton.
"Don't worry," Milton commented as he settled himself for the next movement. "You'll get your wish all right."
Elkan looked inquiringly at his mentor, but Milton only placed his forefinger to his lips; and thereafter, until the conclusion of the symphony, the pauses between the movements of the symphony were so brief that Elkan had no opportunity to make further inquiries.
"Well, neighbour," asked the gentleman on his right, as the musicians filed off the stage for the ten-minutes' intermission, "what do you think of your first symphony?"
Elkan smiled and concealed his shyness by clearing his throat.
"The symphony is all right," he said; "but, with all them operators there, what is the use they are trying to save money hiring only one foreman?"
"One foreman?" his neighbour cried.
"Sure – the feller with the stick," Elkan went on blandly. "Naturally he couldn't keep his eye on all them people at oncet – ain't it? I am watching them fellers, which they are working them big brass machines, for the last half hour, and except for five or ten minutes they sit there doing absolutely nothing – just fooling away their time."
"Them fellers ain't fooling away their time," Milton said gravely. "They ain't got nothing to do only at intervals."
"Then I guess they must pay 'em by piecework – ain't it?" Elkan asked.
"They pay 'em so much a night," Milton explained.
"Well, in that case, Mr. Jassy," Elkan continued, "all I could say is if I would got working in my place half a dozen fellers which I am paying by the day, understand me, and the foreman couldn't keep 'em busy only half the time, verstehst du, he would quick look for another job."
Elkan's neighbour on the right had been growing steadily more crimson, and at last he hurriedly seized his hat and passed out into the aisle.
"That's a pretty friendly feller," Elkan said as he gazed after him. "Do you happen to know his name?"
"I ain't never heard his name," Milton replied; "but he is seemingly crazy about music. I seen him here every time I come."
"Well, I don't blame him none," Elkan commented; "because you take the Harlem Winter Garden, for instance, and though the music is rotten, understand me, they got the nerve to charge you yet for a lot of food which half the time you don't want at all; whereas here they didn't even ask us we should buy so much as a glass beer."
At this juncture the short, stout person returned and proceeded to entertain Elkan and Yetta by pointing out among the audience the figures of local and international millionaires.
"And all them fellers is crazy about music too?" Elkan asked.
"So crazy," his neighbour said, "that the little man over there, with the white beard, spends almost twenty thousand a year on it!"
"And yet," Milton said bitterly, "there's plenty fellers in the city which year in and year out composes chamber music and symphonic music which they couldn't themselves make ten dollars a week; and, when it comes right down to it, none of them millionaires would loosen up to such new beginners for even five hundred dollars to help them get a hearing."
The short person received Milton's outburst with a faint smile.
"I've heard that before," he commented, "but I never had the pleasure of meeting any of those great unknown composers."
"That's because most of 'em is so bashful they ain't got sense enough to push themselves forward," Milton replied; "aber if you really want to meet one I could take you to-night yet to a café on Delancey Street where there is playing a trio which the pianist is something you could really call a genius."
"You don't tell me!" Elkan's neighbour cried. "Why, I should be delighted to go with you."
"How about it, Mr. Lubliner?" Milton asked. "Are you and Mrs. Lubliner agreeable to go downtown after the show to the café on Delancey Street? It's a pretty poor neighbourhood already."
Yetta smiled.
"Sure, I know," she said; "but it wouldn't be the first time me and Elkan was in Delancey Street."
"Then it's agreed that we're all going to hear the genius," Elkan's neighbour added. "I heard you call one another Jassy and Lubliner – it's hardly fair you shouldn't know my name too."
He felt in his waistcoat pocket and finally handed a visiting card to Elkan, who glanced at it hurriedly and with trembling fingers passed it on to his wife, for it was inscribed in old English type as follows:
"Once and for all, I am telling you, Volkovisk, either you would got to play music here or quit!" Marculescu cried at eleven o'clock that evening. "The customers is all the time kicking at the stuff you give us."
"What d'ye mean, stuff?" Max Merech protested. "That was no stuff, Mr. Marculescu. That was from Brahms a trio, and it suits me down to the ground."
"Suits you!" Marculescu exclaimed. "Who in blazes are you?"
"I am auch a customer, Mr. Marculescu," Max replied with dignity.
"Yow, a customer!" Marculescu jeered. "You sit here all night on one cup coffee. A customer, sagt er! A loafer – that's what you are! It ain't you I am making my money from, Merech – it's from them Takeefim1 uptown; and they want to hear music, not Brahms. So you hear what I am telling you, Volkovisk! You should play something good – like 'Wildcat Rag'."
"Wait a minute, Mr. Marculescu," Max interrupted. "Do you mean to told me them lowlife bums in front there, which makes all that Geschrei over 'Dixerlie' and such like Narrischkeit, is Takeefim yet?"
"I don't want to listen to you at all, Merech!" Marculescu shouted.
"I don't care if you want to listen to me oder not," Merech said. "I was a customer here when you got one little store mit two waiters; and it was me and all the other fellers you are calling loafers now what give you, with our few pennies, your first start. Now you are too good for us with your uptown Takeefim. Why, them same Takeefim only comes here, in the first place, because they want to see what it looks like in one of the East Side cafés, where they got such good music and such interesting characters, which sits and drinks coffee and plays chess und Tarrok."
He glared at the enraged Marculescu and waved his hands excitedly.
"What you call loafers they call interesting characters, Mr. Marculescu," he continued, "and what you call stuff they call good music – and that's the way it goes, Mr. Marculescu. You are a goose which is killing its own golden eggs!"
"So!" Marculescu roared. "I am a goose, am I? You loafer, you! Out of here before I kick you out!"
"You wouldn't kick nothing," Max rejoined, "because I am happy to go out from here! Where all the time is being played such Machshovos like 'Wildcat Rag,' I don't want to stay at all."
He rose from his chair and flung ten cents on to the table.
"And furthermore," he cried by way of peroration, "people don't got to come five miles down to Delancey Street to hear 'Wildcat Rag,' Mr. Marculescu; so, if you keep on playing it, Mr. Marculescu, you will quick find that it's an elegant tune to bust up to – and that's all I got to say!"
As he walked away, Marculescu made a sign to his pianist.
"Go ahead, Volkovisk – play 'Wildcat Rag!'" he said. Then he followed Max to the front of the café; and before they reached the front tables, at which sat the slummers from uptown, Volkovisk began to pound out the hackneyed melody.
"That's what I think of your arguments, Merech!" Marculescu said, walking behind the cashier's desk.
Max paused to crush him with a final retort; but even as he began to deliver it his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, for at that instant the door opened and there entered a party of four, with Elkan Lubliner in the van. A moment later, however, Milton Jassy pushed his guests to one side and strode angrily toward Marculescu.
"Koosh!" he bellowed and stamped his foot on the floor, whereat the music ceased and even the uptown revellers were startled into silence. Only Marculescu remained unabashed.
"Say," he shouted as he rushed from behind his desk, "what do you think this joint is? – a joint!"
"I think what I please, Marculescu," Milton said, "and you should tell Volkovisk to play something decent. Also you should bring us two quarts from the best Tchampanyer wine – from French wine Tchampanyer, not Amerikanischer."
He waved his hand impatiently and three waiters – half of Marculescu's entire staff – came on the jump; so that, a moment later, Jassy and his guests were divested of their wraps and seated at one of the largest tables facing the piano. It was not until then that Milton descried Max Merech hovering round the door.
"Merech!" he called. "Kommen sie 'r über!"
Max shook his head shyly and half-opened the door, but Elkan forestalled him. He fairly bounded from the table and caught his assistant cutter by the arm just as he was disappearing on to the sidewalk.
"Max," he said, "what's the matter with you? Ain't you coming in to meet my wife?"
Max shrugged in embarrassment.
"You don't want me to butt into your party, Mr. Lubliner!" he said.
"Listen, Max," Elkan almost pleaded; "not only do I want you to, but you would be doing me a big favour if you would come in and join us. Also, Max, I am going to introduce you as our designer. You ain't got no objections?"
"Not at all," Max replied, and he followed his employer into the café.
"Yetta," Elkan began, "I think you seen Mr. Merech before – ain't it?"
Mrs. Lubliner smiled and extended her hand.
"How do you do, Mr. Merech?" she said; and Max bowed awkwardly.
"Mr. Kammerman," Elkan continued, "this is our designer, Max Merech; and I could assure you, Mr. Kammerman, a very good one too. He's got a great eye for colour."
"And a good ear for music," Milton added as Kammerman shook the blushing dilettante by the hand.
"In fact, Mr. Kammerman, if he has got such taste in designing as he is showing in music," Milton went on, "he must be a wonder! Nothing suits him but the best. And now, if you will excuse me, I'll get Volkovisk he should play you his sonata."
He left the table with his leather portfolio under his arm, and for more than five minutes he held an earnest consultation with Volkovisk and the cellist, after which he returned smiling to his seat.
"First Volkovisk plays his sonata, 'Opus 30,'" he explained, "and then he would do a little thing of my own."
He nodded briskly to Volkovisk, and Kammerman settled himself resignedly to a hearing of what he anticipated would be a commonplace piece of music. After the first six measures, however, he sat up straight in his chair and his face took on an expression of wonder and delight. Then, resting his elbow on the table, he nursed his cheek throughout the first movement in a posture of earnest attention.
"Why," he cried as the musician paused, "this man is a genius!"
Max Merech nodded. His face was flushed and his eyes were filled with tears.
"What did I told you, Mr. Lubliner?" he said; and Jassy raised his hand for silence while Volkovisk began the second movement. This and the succeeding movements fully sustained the promise of the earlier portions of the composition; and when at length Volkovisk rose from the piano stool and approached the table Kammerman jumped from his chair and wrung the composer's hand.
"Sit in my chair," he insisted, and snapped his fingers at Marculescu, who fumed impotently behind the cashier's desk.
"Here," he called; "more wine – and look sharp about it!"
Marculescu obeyed sulkily and again the glasses were filled.
"Gentlemen," Kammerman said, "and Mrs. Lubliner, I ask you to drink to a great career just beginning."
"Lots of people said that before," Max murmured after he had emptied his glass.
"They said it," Kammerman replied, "but I pledge it. You shall play no more in this place, Volkovisk – and here is my hand on it."
Max Merech beamed across the table at his employer.
"Well, Mr. Lubliner," he said, "you lost your chance."
Elkan shrugged and smiled.
"Might you could find another of them genius fellers for me maybe, Max?" he said.
And therewith Kammerman slapped Milton Jassy on the back.
"By Jove! We forgot your trio," he said. "Play it, Volkovisk, as your valedictory here."
Again Volkovisk sought the piano, and after whispered instructions to his assistants he began a rendition of Jassy's "Opus 47," from the manuscript Milton had brought with him; but, allowing for the faulty technic of the 'cellist and the uncertainty that attends the first reading from manuscript of any composition, there was little to recommend Jassy's work.
"Very creditable!" Kammerman said at the end of the movement. "Perhaps we might hear the rest."
Max kept his eyes fixed on the table to avoid looking at Jassy, and even Volkovisk seemed embarrassed as he swung round on the piano stool.
"Well?" he said inquiringly.
Jassy emitted a bitter laugh.
"That'll do, Volkovisk," he replied hoarsely. "I guess it needs rehearsing."
At this point Max attempted to create a diversion.
"Look at that lady sitting there!" he said. "She puts on a yellow hat to an old-gold dress. She's committing murder and she don't know it!"
Kammerman seized on the incident as a way of escape from criticising Jassy's trio.
"That reminds me, Lubliner," he said. "Give me your business card if you have one with you. I must tell Mr. Dalzell, my cloak buyer, to look over your line. I'm sure, with a designer of Mr. Merech's artistic instincts working for you, you will be making up just the highgrade line of goods we need."
One year later, the usual crowd of first-nighters lounged in the lobby of the Siddons Theatre during the intermission between the second and third acts of M. Sidney Benson's newest musical comedy, "Marjory from Marguery's," and commented with enthusiasm on the song hit of the show – "My Blériot Maid." A number of the more gifted even whistled the melody, skipping the hard part and proceeding by impromptu and conventional modulation to the refrain, which had been expressly designed by its composer, Milton Jassy, so as to present no technical difficulties to the most modest whistler.
Through this begemmed and piping throng, Kammerman and Volkovisk elbowed their way to the street for a breath of fresh air; and as they reached the sidewalk Kammerman heaved a sigh of relief.
"What a terrible melody!" he ejaculated.
"But the plot ain't bad," Volkovisk suggested, and Kammerman grinned involuntarily.
"To be exact, the two plots aren't bad," he said. "It's made up of two old farces. One of them is 'Embrassons nous, Duval,' and the other 'Un Garçon, de chez Gaillard.'"
"But the costumes are really something which you could call beautiful!" Volkovisk declared.
"Merech approved the costumes too," Kammerman agreed with a laugh. "He left after the first act; and he said that if you endured it to the end you were to be sure to tell Jassy the colorings were splendid!" He lit a cigarette reflectively. "That man is a regular shark for coloring!" he said. "It seems that when I first met him that night he was only an assistant cutter; but Elkan Lubliner made him designer very shortly afterward – and it has proved a fine thing for both of them. I understand we bought fifteen thousand dollars' worth of goods from them during the past year!"
"He deserved all the good luck that came to him," Volkovisk cried; and Kammerman placed his hand affectionately on his protégé's shoulder.
"There's a special Providence that looks after artists," he said as they reëntered the theatre, "whether they paint, write, compose, or design garments."