"They like the place," asserted Ersten. "I've made a good living there for almost forty years. Why should I move?" 

 "Because you would be nearer Fifth Avenue," Johnny ventured to interject, and spoke to the chauffeur, who drew up to the curb. "This is the place I have in mind, Mr. Ersten." 

 "They come to me where I am," insisted Ersten, refusing to look, with unglazed eyes. 

 "You have no such show-windows," persisted Johnny. 

 "My customers know my goods inside." 

 "There's a big light gallery—twice the size of your present workrooms." 

 Ersten's cheeks suddenly puffed and his forehead purpled, while every hair on his head and face stuck straight out. 

 "My workroom is good enough!" he exploded. "I told it to Schnitt!" 

 "Is Schnitt your coat cutter?" asked Johnny, remembering what Constance and Close had said. 

 Ersten glowered at him. 

 "He was. Thirty-seven years he worked with me; then he tried to run my business. He is gone. Let him go!" 

 "He objected to the light in the workroom, didn't he?" went on the cross-examiner, carefully piecing the situation together bit by bit. 

 "He could see for thirty-seven years, till everybody talks about moving; then he goes crazy," blurted Ersten. 

 "Won't you look at this place?" he was urged. "Let me show it to you to-morrow." 

 "I stay where I am," sullenly declared Ersten, still angry. "We miss my train." 

 Close told the driver to go on. Before Ersten alighted at the terminal, Johnny made one more attempt upon him. 

 "If a majority of your best customers insisted that they liked the new shop better would you look at the other place?" he asked. 

 "My customers don't run my business either!" he puffed. 

 "Good-by," stated Mr. Kurzerhosen, who had been looking steadily at the opposite side of the street throughout the journey. "I thank you." 

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