"
The card described him as a "general business agent and real-estate
broker." This meant that he earned, or tried to earn, an income by
acting as broker for people who wanted to sell or buy
soda-and-cigarette stands, news-stands, laundries, grocery-stores,
delicatessen-stores, butcher shops, cigar-stores, book-stores, and
what not, from a peddier's push-cart to a "parcel" of real estate or
an interest in a small factory. Scores of stores and stands change
hands in the Ghetto every day, the purchaser being usually a
workman who has saved up some money with an eye to business
"Does it pay?" I ventured to ask.
"I am not in it merely for the fun of it, am I?" he returned,
somewhat resentfully. "Business is business and poetry is poetry. I
hate to confound the two. One must make a living. Thank God, I
know how to look things in the face. I am no dreamer. It is sweet
to earn your livelihood."
"Of course it is. Still, dreaming is no crime, either."
"Ah, that's another kind of dreaming. Do you write?"
"Oh no," I said, with a laugh.
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