“Mr. Feder,” he exclaimed, “ain’t this indeed a pleasure?  Come inside, Mr. Feder.  Come inside into our show-room.”

He brought out a seat for the vice-president and dusted it carefully.

“I ain’t come to see you, Abe,” Mr. Feder said; “I come to see that partner of yours.”

He untied the string that bound the brown paper parcel and pulled out its contents.

“Why!” Morris gasped.  “That’s my vest.”

“Sure it is,” Mr. Feder replied, “and it just fits me, Mawruss.  In fact, it fits me so good that when I went to the barber-shop in a two-piece suit this morning, Mawruss, I come away with a three-piece suit and a souvenir besides.”

“A souvenir!” Abe cried.  “What for a souvenir?”

Mr. Feder put his hand in his trousers pocket and tumbled the missing ring and pin on to a baize-covered sample table.

“That was the souvenir, Abe,” he said.  “In fact, two souvenirs.”

Morris and Abe stared at the diamonds, too stunned for utterance.

“You’re a fine feller, Mawruss,” Mr. Feder continued, “to be carrying around valuable stones like them in your vest pocket.  Why, I showed them stones to a feller what was in my office an hour ago and he says they must be worth pretty near five hundred dollars.”

He paused and looked at Morris.

“And he was a pretty good judge of diamonds, too,” he continued.

“Who was the feller, Mr. Feder?” Abe asked.

“I guess you know, Abe,” Mr. Feder replied.  “His name is Hymie Kotzen.”

CHAPTER VII

“Max Fried, of the A La Mode Store, was in here a few minutes since, Mawruss,” said Abe Potash, to his partner, Morris Perlmutter, after the latter had returned from lunch one busy August day, “and bought a couple of hundred of them long Trouvilles.  He also wanted something to ask it of us as a favor, Mawruss.”

“Sixty days is long enough, Abe,” said Morris, on the principle of “once bitten, twice shy.”  “For a man what runs a little store like the A La Mode on Main Street, Buffalo, Abe, Max don’t buy too few goods, neither.  Ain’t it?”

“Don’t jump always for conclusions, Mawruss,” Abe broke in.  “This ain’t no credit matter what he asks it of us.  His wife got a sister what they wanted to make from her a teacher, Mawruss, but she ain’t got the head.  So, Max thinks we could maybe use her for a model.  Her name is Miss Kreitmann and she’s a perfect thirty-six, Max says, only a little fat.”

“And then, when she tries on a garment for a customer,” Morris rejoined, “the customer goes around telling everybody that we cut our stuff too skimpy.  Ain’t it?  No, Abe, we got along so far good with the models what we got, and I guess we can keep it up.  Besides, if Max is so anxious to get her a job, why don’t he take her on himself, Abe?”