Toward midnight she fell to crying again beside the crib, and in audible jerks and moans that racked her. The child stirred. Cramming her handkerchief against her lips, she faltered down the hallway. In the front room and on the pillowed couch she collapsed weakly, eyes closed and her grief-crumpled face turned toward the door. On the ground floor of a dim house in a dim street, which by the contrivance of its occupants had been converted from its original role of dark and sinister dining-room to wareroom for a dozen or more perambulators on high, rubber-tired wheels, Alphonse Michelson and Gertie Dobriner stood in conference with a dark-wrappered figure, her blue-checked apron wound muff fashion about her hands. Miss Dobriner tapped a finger against her too red lips. "Seventy dollars net for a baby-carriage!" "Yes'm, and a bargain at that. If he was home he'd show you the books hisself and the prices we get." "Seventy dollars for a baby-carriage! For that, Phonzie, you can buy the kid a taxi." In a sotto voice and with a flow of red suffusing his face, Alphonse Michelson turned to Gertie Dobriner, his hand curved blinker fashion to inclose his words. "For Gawd's sake, cut the haggling, Gert. If this here white enamel is the carriage we want, let's take it and hike. I got to get home." Miss Dobriner drew up her back to a feline arch. "The gentleman says we'll take it for sixty-five, spot cash." "My husband's great for one price, madam. We don't cater to none but private trade and--" "Sure you don't. If we could have got one of these glass-top carriages in a department store, we wouldn't be swimming over here to Brooklyn just to try out our stroke." "Mrs. Nan Ness, who sent you here, knows the kind of goods we turn out. She says she's going to give us an order for a twin buggy yet, some of these days. If the Four Hundred believed in babies like the Four Million, we'd have a plant all over Brooklyn. Only my husband won't spread, he--he--" Mr. Michelson waved aside the impending recitation with a sweep of his hand. "Is this the one you like, Gert?" "Yes, with the folding top. Say, don't I want to see madam's face when she sees it. And say, won't the kid be a scream, Phonzie, all nestled up in there like a honey bunch?" He slid his hand into his pocket, withdrawing a leather folder. "Here, we'll take this one with the folding top, but get us a fresh one out of stock." "We'll make you this carriage up, sir, just as you see it now." "Make it up! We've got to have it now. To-night!" "But, sir, we only got these samples made up to show." "Then we got to buy the sample." "No, no. My husband ain't home and I--I can't sell the sample. We--" "But I tell you we got to have it to-night. To-morrow's Sunday and the lady who--" "No, no. With my husband not here, I can't let go no sample. As a special favor, sir, we'll make you one up in a week." Miss Dobriner stooped forward, her eyes narrow as slits. "Seventy-five, spot down."