o'clock every night, Abe," he declared. "I would tell him to go home to
the old country if I would got to pay for the ticket myself."

Abe thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and started to walk
gloomily away.

"Furthermore, Abe, if you want to go out for your lunch, Abe," Morris
concluded, "now is the time, because as I told you before, Abe, I got to
go on the court at two o'clock."

"Sure you told me that before, Mawruss," Abe growled, as he put on his
hat and coat; "and when a feller goes to work and deliberately fixes
things so he has got to go on a court, Mawruss, d'ye know the next place
he would go?"

He paused for a retort; but, as Morris made no sign, Abe supplied his
own answer.

"A lunatic asylum," he said, and a minute later the elevator door
clanged behind him.

For almost an hour longer Morris busied himself with the assortment of
the sample line, and he had about concluded his task when a great
wailing noise came from the cutting room. He jumped to his feet and ran
hurriedly to the scene of the uproar. There he found Enrico Simonetti
seated on a stool, clutching his hair with both hands, while around him
stood a group of his assistants, voicing their anguish like a pack of
foxhounds.

"_Koosh!_" Morris cried. "What is the trouble here?"