the street!"

"_Mister_ Cohen," Morris protested, "you'll make yourself sick."

"I'll make _you_ sick!" Cohen rejoined. "I'll make for you a blue eye,
too. _Five thousand dollars_ I got to give her!"

Abe whistled involuntarily.

"I should think two thousand would be plenty," he suggested.

Max Cohen turned on him with another glare.

"What!" he shrieked. "Am I a beggar? Should I give my niece a miserable
two thousand dollars? Ain't I got no pride? I _got_ to make it five
thousand!" He paused while his imagination dwelt on the magnitude of
this colossal sum. "Five thousand dollars!" he shrieked again, "and
business the way it is!"

Mr. Perlmutter laid a soothing palm on Cohen's shoulder.

"But, Mr. Cohen," he said, "what can _we_ do? Why should you tell _us_
all this?"

Mr. Cohen shook off Morris's caress.

"You're right," he said. "Why should I tell you all this? I didn't come
here to tell you this. I come here to tell you something else. I come
here to tell you to cancel all orders what I give you. Also, if you or
your salesman come by my place ever again, look out; that's all. The way