and when Morris went home that evening he wore so gloomy an air that
Harry Baskof, who rode up on the elevator with him, was moved to
comment.

"What's the matter, Mawruss?" he said. "You look like your best customer
would be asking an extension on you."

"We don't sell such people at all, Harry," Morris said bitterly.
"Collections is all right, Harry, but when a feller's got a partner
which he is got such a quick temper, understand me, that he fires out
the help faster as I could hire 'em--I got a right to look worried. Our
designer leaves us to-day."

"Ain't that terrible, Mawruss," Harry said in mock sympathy. "I suppose
you couldn't walk for miles on Fifth Avenue between Eighteenth and
Twenty-third Street and break your neck falling over a hundred designers
which they are hanging around there looking for jobs."

They alighted at the third floor and Morris drew his latchkey from his
waistcoat pocket.

"Sure, I know, Harry," he retorted. "Them people which they already got
designers could always find a better one, y'understand, but when you
ain't got a designer, Harry, that's something else again. You could
advertise until you are blue in the face, and all the answers you get is
from fellers which they couldn't design a sausage casing for a
frankfurter already."

"_Schmooes_, Mawruss!" Harry cried. "I could get you thousands of
designers. In fact, Mawruss, only this afternoon my father-in-law, Mr.