What date
I'm goin' to own it I won't say. But what I want to put up to you: How
much would you ask me to manage it for me?
GIBSON: What?
FRANKEL: I wouldn't be no piker; when it comes to your salary you could
pretty near set it yourself.
GIBSON: I'm afraid I've already had an offer that would keep me from
accepting, Frankel.
FRANKEL: When the time comes I'll git a manager somewhere; no place like
this can't run itself; I seen that much.
GIBSON: Even if I didn't have an offer, Frankel, I doubt if I'd accept
yours. You know I used to have some little trouble here.
FRANKEL: You got my sympathy now! I got troubles myself here. [_Hastily
drinks another glass of water._] Well, where's that meeting? They're
late, ain't they?
CARTER: If they are it's your fault. Them wops of yours won't hardly let
a body git by out yonder.
[SALVATORE _and_ SHOMBERG _come in from the factory_, SALVATORE
_pausing in the doorway to shout in the direction of an audible
disturbance in the distance._]
SALVATORE: Oh, shut up; you'll git your pay!
[_Following_ SALVATORE _come_ SIMPSON _and his wife and_ RILEY. _They
all speak rather casually but not uncordially to_ GIBSON. MIFFLIN _is
with them, his hand on_ SIMPSON'S _shoulder. The outbreak outside
subsides in favour of a speech of extreme violence in a foreign
language. Italian, Yiddish, or whatever it is, it seems most passionate,
and by a good orator. It continues to be heard as the members of the
committee take their seats at the big table.
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