It was the middle of April. The spring season was over, but
Manheimer Brothers, the firm by which I was employed, had
received heavy duplicate orders for silk coats, and, considering
the time of the year, we were unusually busy. One day, at the
lunch hour, as I was opening a small bottle of milk, the bottle
slipped out of my hand and its contents were spilled over the floor
and some silk coats
Jeff Manheimer, one of the twins, happened to be near me at the
moment, and a disagreeable scene followed. But first a word or
two about Jeff Manheimer
He was the "inside man" of the firm, having charge of the
mechanical end of the business as well as of the offices. He was
of German parentage, but of American birth. Bald-headed as a
melon and with a tendency to corpulence, he had the back of a
man of forty-five and the front of a man of twenty-five.
He was a vivacious fellow, one of those who are indefatigable in
abortive attempts at being witty, one of his favorite puns being
that we "Russians were not rushin' at all," that we were a "slow
lot.
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