"That's all right," Abe murmured. "Here is our card, and you should positively come up to see us. Even if you wouldn't buy from us a button, Mr. Gershon, it would be a pleasure for us to see you in our place." "I would sure be there," Mr. Gershon said as he pocketed the card. "Waiter," Abe called, "put this here gentleman's check on mine and bring us two of them thirty-cent cigars." * * * * * So eagerly did Morris await the advent of Uncle Mosha Kronberg in Potash & Perlmutter's store that he even omitted to notice his partner's prolonged absence at lunch; and when Abe returned to unfold the narrative of his meeting with a prospective customer Morris heard it without interest. "The feller is A number one, Mawruss," Abe said. "I stopped off to see Sam Feder at the Kosciusko Bank, and Sam sent me to the Associated Information Bureau. He is rated twenty to thirty thousand; credit good." "Yes?" Morris replied. "Tell me, Abe, did Mosha Kronberg say just when he would be here?" "What are you wasting your time about Mosha Kronberg for?" Abe retorted. "We got enough to do we should pick out a few good styles to show Gershon." Morris nodded absently. His thoughts were centred on a short old man with close-cropped beard who at that very moment was turning the corner of Fifth Avenue and Nineteenth Street. Simultaneously Aaron Kronberg ran across the street from Sammet Brothers' doorway and clapped the old gentleman on the shoulder. "Hello, Uncle Mosha!" he cried. "What are you doing around here?" "Couldn't I come uptown oncet in a while if I would want to?" Uncle Mosha replied, somewhat testily. "Sure, sure," Aaron Kronberg hastened to say. "Did you eat yet?" "I never eat in the middle of the day," Uncle Mosha said. "I am up here on business." "On business?" Aaron repeated. "What for business?" "I think I sold the house," Mosha replied. For one brief moment Aaron gazed at his uncle and then he linked his arm in that of the old man. "Come over to Twenty-third Street and drink anyhow a cup of coffee," he said, and ten minutes later they entered an enamelled brick dairy restaurant. "You say you think you sold the house?" Aaron said, after a waitress had served them. Uncle Mosha nodded. He was emptying a cup of coffee in long, noisy inhalations and at the same time consuming cheese sandwiches with uncommonly keen appetite--for a man who never ate in the middle of the day. "Yes, Aaron," Uncle Mosha said, as he emerged all dripping from the cup, "I think I sold the house, and I guess I would have another cup coffee." "Go ahead," Aaron replied. "But what for you want to sell the house, Uncle Mosha? It brings you in anyhow a good income." "A good income for some people, Aaron, but for me not. What is one thousand a year, Aaron?" "One thousand a year, uncle, is a whole lot, especially to a man like you, what lives simple."