He was a middle-aged man
(women buyers were rare in those days), an Irish-American of
commanding figure. After sweeping me with a glance of cold
curiosity, he waved me aside. My Russian name and my
appearance were evidently against me. I tried the other
department stores --with the same result. The larger business
world of the city had not yet learned to take the Russian Jew
seriously as a factor in advanced commerce. The buyer of the
cloak department in the last store I visited was an American Jew,
a fair-complexioned little fellow, all aglitter with neatness. At first
he took an amused interest in me. When I had unpacked my goods
and was about to show him one of Chaikin's jackets he checked
me
"Suppose we gave you an order for five hundred," he said, with a
smile; "five hundred jackets to be delivered at a certain date."
"I would deliver it," I answered, boldly. "Why not?"
"I don't know why. Maybe you would, maybe you wouldn't. How
can we be sure you would?" Before I had time to answer he asked
me how long I had been in the country.
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