"I am very sorry, sorr," said the janitor as he turned off the heat and
disconnected the electric lights. "'Tain't me as is doin' ut--ut's the
owner of the buildin'. He says the rint ain't been paid for six mont's,
and while he ain't hard-hearted enough to turn nobody out on the sthreet
such weather as this, he don't see no use in dandlin' tinants what don't
pay in no lap o' luxury."
Jack looked at the man in silence, completely stunned by this new
development in a situation already sufficiently distressing.
"'Let him enjye all the pleasures of the roof, Mike,' says he,"
continued the janitor, "'but no wooin' of his beauty sleep to the soft
music of the steam-radiator, nor 'lectric lights to cheer the dark
places of his sperrit whin twilight comes. Ut's the land of the Midnight
Sun for his till I see th' color of his bank account.'"
"But I shall freeze if you turn off the heat," protested Jack.
"That's the answer, I guess," returned the janitor. "Ut's a pretty cold
snap we do be havin'."
Jack buried his face in his hands and groaned. Things had gone ill for
the unhappy lad for a long time now, and the sudden precipitation of
winter weather found him practically penniless. For one reason or
another no one seemed to care for his poetry, and his last story, from
the proceeds of which he had expected to make enough to tide him over
for a little while at least, had been returned by every editor in town.
"Ut's mighty sorry for you, I am," said the kindly janitor, his heart
stirred by the pitiable picture of suffering before him. "I'd be afther
leavin' t'ings as they are if I dared, but the old man's orders--"
"I know, I know," said Jack, wearily, "but it's awfully tough just the
same. I can get along without food, but without light and heat I don't
see how I can do my work."
"I'll lend yez a candle, sorr," said the janitor. "That'll help some. Ye
can warm your hands over the flame of ut while you're doin' your
t'inkin', and ut'll give ye light enough to put down what ye t'ink in
between times."
"Good old Mike!" said Jack, wringing the other by the hand warmly. "When
my ship comes in you shall have a good slice of the cargo for that."
"Sure an' she ain't la'nched yet, is she?" asked the janitor, with a
grin, and then, as Jack seemed to have sunk into a dejected reverie, he
gathered up his tools and left the room.
An hour passed before the miserable lad even so much as raised his head.
"Jove! it's cold!" He shivered, as he gazed around him, the room bathed
in the gathering shadows of twilight. "And to think that it was only
last summer that I was complaining because this place was so infernally
hot!"
His teeth chattered as he spoke, and he suddenly bethought himself of
his fur-lined overcoat hanging in the closet, his very last possession,
and one he had worn persistently of late, not so much because the
temperature of the town required it as to maintain publicly an
appearance of prosperity.
"I'll take one last wear out of you," he said, as he put it on, "and
to-morrow I'll put you in cold storage at the house of mine Uncle. He
already has my watch, my scarf-pin, and everything else that I have
that is negotiable--he might as well top his collection off with you."
The thought that the useful old garment was still good enough to act as
a satisfactory bit of security for a temporary accommodation at the
neighboring pawnshop cheered him up somewhat, and he went out, seeking a
comfortable spot where with his last half-dollar he could assuage the
growing pangs of hunger. As he left the house he noticed that the snow
was beginning to fall, so he decided not to go very far afield for his
meal. A cheap restaurant half-way down the block, on the avenue,
attracted his eye, and he went in and ordered his dinner--twenty-five
cents' worth of roast beef and a cup of coffee for himself, and the
balance to tip the waiter. He ate slowly, though this was not his habit,
merely because the place was warm and bright, and as he lingered over
his coffee he wrote a sonnet on life on the back of the bill of fare.
Then, his account paid, he started back to his apartment. As he left
the cafe the wheezing notes of a minute hand-organ playing "The Good Old
Summer-time" fell upon his ear. It sounded very much like a
talking-machine in the last stages of bronchitis, and then, suddenly, in
the midst of a "B-flat" that sounded more like a sneeze than a note, a
heartrending picture of misery and desolation smote upon his vision. On
the corner, exposed to all the icy winds that blew up the avenue, and
over the cross-streets from the river, huddled up into a seeming mass of
rags, over which the falling snow was drifting, was the form of an aged
woman, turning the crank of a battered and broken organ with fitful
twists of her poor blue hands.
"Holy smoke!" cried Jack, as his eye fell upon the old woman's bent
figure. "And I have been sympathizing with myself for the last four
hours!"
In an instant he had whipped off his overcoat--the fur-lined coat that
had been his only hope for immediate financial relief--and had thrown
it across the poor old shoulders.
"Excuse me, madam," he said, as the old woman stopped grinding the organ
to look gratefully up into his face. "If I had any money I'd give it to
you, but I'm dead broke myself, and I can't help you that way. But, by
thunder! I can't stand seeing you freeze!"
"Oh, I cannot take your coat, sir," the old woman began.
"Yes, you can," said Jack. "If you don't want it as an act of charity,
let me have a quarter to buy my breakfast to-morrow morning, and you can
have the coat for the time being. I'll rent it to you over-night for a
quarter. You can return it in the morning. I live right across the
street at the Redmere."
The old woman muttered a scarcely audible word of thanks.
"Heaven will reward you for this," she began.
"That's all right," said Jack, cheerfully. "I'm not looking for
dividends of that particular kind. I'll consider it a good bargain if
you'll just rent this old horse-blanket for the night for twenty-five
cents. Then nobody will be under obligation to anybody else."
The old woman smiled even as she shivered, and diving down into the
mysterious depths of her ragged garments produced a handful of pennies
which she handed to the unexpected philanthropist.
"I will return the coat in the morning," she said. "Good-night!"
And again the withered hand began to turn the crank, and the suffering
organ, as Jack sped across the way to the Redmere again, began to wheeze
as before, taking a turn this time at that popular melody, "There'll Be
a Hot Time in the Old Town To-night."
"Poor old hag!" muttered Jack as, without removing his clothes, he
climbed into bed and covered himself in addition with the bath-rug. "I
may be ninety-seven different kinds of an ass, but here's to the Heart
of Folly! I couldn't let that old creature freeze to death under my very
window."
And warmed by the thought of a kindly deed done he turned over and went
to sleep.
So weary was the poor lad after the troublesome experiences of a day so
full of worry that he slept heavily and far into the next morning.
Indeed, it required all the elbow power of Mike, the janitor, hammering
with his great fist upon the door, to awaken him.
"Hello, there! What the dickens do you want?" cried Jack, sleepily,
aroused at last from his slumbers by a thunderous kick upon the door
from the janitorial foot.
"Ut's me, sorr," replied Mike.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" said Jack, opening the door. "What's the trouble
now? Orders from the landlord to stop my sleeping?"
"No, sorr," replied the janitor. "Sure an' I'm just afther bringin' yez
a package lift at the door."
"Confound you, Mike!" growled Jack, with a glance at the clock. "Nobody
can economize with a noise trust like you around. If you had only let me
sleep an hour longer I could have saved the price of a breakfast!"
"Well, the lady that lift this bundle tould me to give ut yez without
anny delay," returned Mike. "And whin annybody gives me a dollar to get
a move on I get ut."
"A lady gave you a dollar to hand this bundle to me?" demanded Jack,
incredulously.
"She did that," said Mike. "She come drivin' up in her limybean
motor-car, and give me the package, and tould me not to let anny weeds
grow under me slippers."
Jack rubbed his eyes in astonishment, and gazed wonderingly at the
brown-paper package. What could it be? Certainly not his fur coat. A
limousine car and the lady of the wheezy hand-organ did not seem to go
together. In an instant, consumed with curiosity, he tore off the
brown-paper covering, and found within a white pasteboard box, oblong in
shape, and tied up with blue ribbon. Attached to the middle was a note,
which, on being opened, revealed the following message to Jack's staring
eyes:
THE UNITED STATES FAIRY COMPANY
8976 WALL STREET
NEW YORK, _December 12, 1910_.
DEAR JACK,--I return your cloak herewith with many thanks
for your kindness to
Yours gratefully,
TITANIA J. GODMOTHER,
President The United States Fairy Co.
"Well, I'll be blowed!" ejaculated the lad as he read. "The old lady a
fairy? I don't know about this--it has a phony look to me!"
As he spoke he cut the blue ribbon with his penknife and opened the box.
The mystery, instead of being solved, now became all the deeper, for as
far as Jack's eye was able to see the box was empty.
The janitor grinned unsympathetically.
"Quare toime for an April-fool joke!" he said, as he left the room.
For a few moments Jack was as silent as the Sphinx, and then, with a
sudden surge of wrath that any one should play such a trick upon him, he
gave the box a kick that sent it flying across the room. It landed on a
chair, the cover fell off, and then, mystery of mysteries,
three-quarters of the chair disappeared wholly from sight. Again Jack
rubbed his eyes in amazement, and slowly, like a trapper passing along a
forest trail, he crept over to where the chair stood and put out his
hand to feel for its missing parts. In a moment he was reassured as to
their existence, for he could feel the outlines of the missing sections,
but something apparently lay across them. It was a soft, silky material,
tangible enough, but absolutely invisible. It felt like a cloak, and as
Jack passed his hands along its folds he found that it had sleeves,
buttons, buttonholes, and a hood at the back of its collar, not to
mention several capacious pockets within.
"Huh!" he ejaculated. "It feels like an invisible ulster. I wonder--"
An idea flashed across his mind, acting upon which he seized the cloak,
and rushed into his bedroom, where, standing before the mirror on his
bureau, he put it on, buttoning it all the way up to his neck. This
done, he glanced at himself in the glass.
_Only his head, which had remained uncovered, was reflected there!_
"Well of all--" he began, astounded at the vision before him, or rather
the lack of it. Hastily he pulled the hood over his head, and
immediately, as far as the eye could see, he completely vanished.
And then Jack knew what had happened.
The fairy godmother had given him one of the choicest possessions of her
kingdom--the famous invisible cloak!
Ten minutes later Jack found himself passing through the Subway gate at
Forty-second Street, entirely unobserved by anybody, and therefore
relieved of the necessity of paying his fare. The invisible cloak was
doing its duty nobly, but a moment later the lad had an example of its
dangers as well as of its virtues, for as he sat quietly by the door of
the car trying to collect his flustered thoughts, a very stout German
gentleman got aboard the train and sat down heavily upon him. He did not
stay, however, but on the contrary, with a startled cry of alarm, rose
up as quickly as he had sat down.
[Illustration: "DERE ISS SOMEDINGS IN DOT SEADT, ALRETTY YET!"]
"Dere iss somedings in dot seadt, alretty yet!" he cried to the guard,
excitedly.
Jack slipped noiselessly out of the seat, and the guard, after feeling
around in it for a second or two, turned with scorn upon the astonished
Teuton, and in language of a slightly unparliamentary cast advised him
to change his diet.
"You'll be seein' t'ings next!" he said.
Jack shook with internal laughter as the amazed son of the Rhine sat
cautiously down again, his face showing a deal of relief to find that
his first spooky impression was not correct, all of which for the
remainder of the trip down-town he openly expressed with considerable
volubility. Finally he was interrupted by the raucous voice of the guard
crying:
"Wall Street!"
Now Jack had not consciously started out to go to Wall Street, but the
announcement of the train's arrival there gave him a thrill.
"Wall Street, eh?" he muttered. "Ha! Hum! Methinks the financial
stringency is over if this little old coat holds out! I seem to detect
the odor of money."
He mounted the steps to the street, and wandered aimlessly down the
great financial highway until he found himself standing before the
gorgeous facade of the famous Urban National Bank. Here he paused a
moment, and curiosity as much as anything else led him to enter its
portals, and there within lay spread before his famished financial eyes,
separated from his hands only by a slight bit of steel grillwork,
countless packages, huge of bulk, of bank-notes, in all denominations,
any one of which, once in his possession, would serve to put him at ease
for the remainder of the year. Monte Cristo himself had no such stores
of wealth within his reach in the treasure-caves of his wondrous island.
The teller behind the grill was counting the contents of his safe, and
as he bent over to foot up a column of figures Jack stopped in front of
the little window and said:
"Good-morning!"
He did this not so much for the fun of it as for a precautionary test of
his invisibility, for a great scheme had entered his mind. The teller
looked up, craned his neck in every direction, and peered around to see
who had addressed him.
[Illustration: "THERE MUST BE SOMETHING THE MATTER WITH MY NERVES"]
"There must be something the matter with my nerves this morning," he
said, scratching his head in bewilderment. "I was sure somebody spoke to
me."
Jack had all he could do to keep from laughing outright, but safety bade
him restrain the impulse, and in a moment he had climbed over the steel
grillwork and entered the sacred precincts of Ready Money. Once within
the teller's cage his heart began to thump so violently that it seemed
impossible for him to escape detection, but so busy were all the bank
people with the duties of the day that no one seemed to hear. And then
our hero began. Within five minutes he had stowed away within the
capacious pockets of his invisible cloak as many of the packages of
bills, green-backed and yellow, as he could possibly carry there, and
then, slipping out through the little door at the rear of the cage, he
walked calmly out of the bank with them. Arrived on Broadway, he removed
his coat and, hanging it over his arm, took a taxicab back to the
Redmere.
He could hardly wait until he reached his apartment to count up the
results of his morning's work, but his caution stood by him, and it was
not until he had locked his door and barricaded it with the bureau
rolled in front of it that he opened the various packages. There were
ten of them altogether, and Jack's eyes nearly popped out of his head
with wonder as he saw so much real money spread out before him. Three of
the packages held one thousand dollars each in twenty-dollar bills, four
of them held five hundred dollars each in five-dollar bills, and the
other three totalled fifteen hundred dollars in ones and
twos--sixty-five hundred dollars altogether.
"Mike!" he cried, going to the dumbwaiter shaft, and calling down,
vociferously, "turn on the heat, and tell the boss to send a truck
around here for his rent."
Hiding the money under the mattress of his bed, Jack removed the
invisible cloak and hung it in the closet, taking care to lock the door
thereof, and then he started to shave. His hand trembled too much for
this, however, and after he had snipped off two or three pieces of his
cheek he abandoned the effort, but his brief trial before the glass had
a distinct moral influence upon him, for as his eye caught its own
reflection in the mirror, and Jack came to look himself squarely in the
face for the first time since his removal of the money from the bank, he
found that he could not do it. His eye faltered and fell, and the
question flashed across his mind as to the honesty of his morning's
work.
"Hum!" he muttered, sitting down suddenly on his bed and staring at a
hole in the carpet, "I hadn't thought of that before! What would my poor
but honest parents think about this?"
He scratched the end of his nose thoughtfully.
"It isn't any too straight, even in these days of frenzied finance," he
went on; "that is, it isn't unless I regard this thing as a loan! Of
course if it's a loan--yes, it must be. Otherwise I'm no better than any
other--"
His brow cleared as the idea entered his mind.
"I'll make it O. K. in a jiffy," he said.
He went to his writing-desk, and wrote to the cashier of the Urban
National Bank as follows:
NEW YORK, _December 12, 1910_.
_Cashier, the Urban National Bank,_
_New York City:_
DEAR SIR,--I think it only proper to inform you that,
unknown to yourself or any other person in your bank, I have
this morning negotiated a loan with your institution for six
thousand five hundred dollars. I have a temporary need for
this accommodation, and in order that the transaction may
appear a trifle less informal, I beg to hand you herewith my
six-months note for the amount borrowed, together with one
hundred and ninety-five dollars in cash to cover discount
charges, reckoned on a six-per-cent. basis. Please
acknowledge receipt of the same in the Personal Column of
the New York _Morning Gazoo_.
The charming ease and promptness with which this
transaction was put through have given me a more than
friendly feeling for your bank, and now that I have used one
package of your money I take pleasure in saying that I shall
not only recommend it to my friends, but shall hereafter use
no other.
Cordially yours,
A FRIEND IN NEED.
This written, Jack purchased a blank promissory note at a stationery
store on the corner and filled it in.
$6,500. NEW YORK, _December 12, 1910_.
Six months after date I promise to pay to the order of the
Urban National Bank Six thousand five hundred dollars at the
Urban National Bank, New York City. Value received.