THE QUARREL NEXT DOOR
Josie was right; the song of the frogs meant spring was on the way--in
the air--in the ground--in one’s bones. The Leslies’ apartment was hot,
hot to suffocation. The janitor, following in the footsteps of most
janitors, had made up an extra hot fire in the furnace because it was
Sunday and because it was a warm Sunday. When Josie sought the quiet of
her own room to escape the reiterated wailings of Mrs. Leslie and to
read her precious little book, she found the atmosphere oppressively
heavy. To escape it she raised her window and leaned far out, drinking
deep of the soft spring air. The little back yard was showing signs
of coming to life. A brave little daffodil had poked a green nose up
through the black earth and a foolish peach tree actually had a few
precocious buds on one of its slender branches.
“They’ll be nipped and deserve to be,” thought Josie. “But I reckon
they can’t help it any more than I can resist almost falling out of
the window in search of air.”
Someone else was evidently of the same mind, as a window next to the
one from which Josie was leaning was raised with some vehemence and an
impatient voice, strangely familiar to Josie, exclaimed:
“Gee, but it’s hot in this hole! I hate to think of summer’s coming.”
“And I--ah, how I long for warmth--” drawled a woman’s voice with a
foreign accent.
Josie decided it was the Kambourians--mother and son. Then a
goodnatured growl from the interior of the room gave evidence that Papa
Kambourian was not far off.
“_Nom de Dieu_--close the window, Roy! Do not you understand that Mamma
and I have air enough during the week days to last us over the blessed
Sabbath. That is the worst of these United States and all who happen to
be born here as were you, _mon bon enfant_--air always air!”
“And I! How about me being shut up in a shop all week with a bunch of
silly girls, working like a dog--and when I do pull off a deal to have
Mamma fall down on her part? I can’t get over it--losing the things.”
“Now, now, boy!” and the goodnatured growl bordered on anger. “Let
Mamma be! It was unavoidable. Has she not already wept oceans of tears?
What are a few yards of wretched lace and a bit bauble of a gold bag
to poor Mamma’s feelings? Let be, _mon fils_, and try again. A few
more hauls and we will have enough to set up a small shop in the great
metropolis.”
“Not for me! I’m through I tell you--through for good and all. I’m
sick of the whole wretched business. You and Mamma can keep on being
foreigners all you want but I’m an American boy--almost a man--and I
want to pull loose. I could make as much money walking straight as I do
crooked.” His voice rose angrily and Josie felt that the boy was on the
verge of tears in spite of his assertion that he was almost a man.
“Shut the window!” roared the father. “Such foolish babble is enough to
start the whole neighborhood talking!”
“Now, now!” soothed the woman’s voice. “Don’t you and Papa quarrel.
I know my little Roy will not what you call pull out yet and leave
poor Mamma before she gets enough pretty things to start a little
_boutique_. Shut the window like a gentle boy because the air may make
Papa sick.”
“How can air make one sick who sits all day on a sidewalk?”
“And now you reproach poor Papa and Mamma because they sit all day
and sell the pencils and shoe strings and paperrs,” whined the woman,
though it was easy to grasp that the whine in her voice was pure
burlesque. “Was I made for such a life? No, I tell you, nevaire!”
At this juncture the window was closed with a vigorous slam and the
eavesdropper heard no more. She had heard quite enough however to set
her steady little heart a thumping.
“I am almost as big an idiot as my worthy brother in arms, Major
Simpson,” Josie took herself to task. “Anybody with a grain of sense
would have known all along what I had to open a window to find out.
Thank goodness for the over zealous janitor. I’ll give him a generous
tip to-morrow. But mercy on us, how carefully I must go now. I can
hardly trust myself not to burst in on the Leslies and tell them the
whole thing. One thing I know, I must call in help from the police
department, as much as I hate to get any clumsy folks mixed up in
this. I know what I’ll do--” She made a feverish dive for her hat and
jacket, and grabbing up her gloves rushed through the living room,
saying in passing:
“Expect me back when you see me but know that I am not running off for
more than an hour or so.”
“There now!” gasped Mrs. Leslie. “What a strange girl she is after all.
What do you think is the matter, Mary?”
“I think she has a clue and is following it up. All I am wondering is
where she got it in such a short time and if she will tell us all about
it later on. It is certainly interesting to have a person like Josie to
rent a room from us, isn’t it Mother?”
“I should say so; but I wish she wouldn’t be so sudden,” sighed Mrs.
Leslie. “I think she ought to tell me what her clue is because I am
sure I could help her.”
Mary smiled. She was not so sure. Up to the present her mother had
been more of a hinderance than a help to their little lodger. As for
suddenness; nobody could have been more sudden than that lady in
accepting without question the opinion of old Major Simpson merely
because he had come from her county and had presented her with a pink
parasol when she was quite a tiny girl.
To a clever girl like Josie, it was an easy matter to find out the
name of the reporter on the yellow journal who had spread himself so
lavishly on the shoplifting story. First to the newspaper office where,
it being a morning paper, the business of the day had not begun. The
office was open, however, and a janitor was lazily sweeping the floor
and grumbling because the one who took care of a daily newspaper office
had no Sunday to speak of. The man at a desk agreed with him as did
also the telephone girl whose business it was to handle the private
switchboard.
“May I speak with the city editor?” Josie asked meekly.
“Not in yet!” growled the man at the desk. “Anything I can do?”
“Oh, please, if you will be so kind--I want the name and address of the
reporter who had the shoplifting story in the paper this morning.”
“Whatcher want with it? It’s against the policy of the paper to divulge
names and addresses. The management holds itself responsible for all
stories published in its columns and the management has not come down
yet.”
“I merely wanted to give the man a chance on another scoop, but since
you are evidently not desirous of scoops I’ll look up the other paper.”
“How’s that? Scoop? Give it to me! I’ll get hold of Jimmy Blaine in a
minute. The truth of the matter is, young lady, I am the management
but it’s policy to keep it dark when anybody is on the war path. I was
afraid you were one of the wronged ladies in Jimmy’s story--but I might
have known you weren’t.”
“Well, if you can get hold of this Jimmy I’d be very much obliged.”
“What is the nature of your story? Anything like the one this morning?”
“No, this one is a true story. There is mighty little that is true
in the scoop of the morning except perhaps the pink parasol and the
doughnuts. Would it be against the policy of the paper for you to
divulge just what part of the management you are?”
“Ahem! I am part owner and managing editor.”
“Then you’ll do, but please get this Jimmy here as fast as you can so I
can tell the tale to both of you at once and save time and breath.”
Jimmy Blaine was forced to uncover his head and listen to his room
mate.
“Boss wants you and wants you in a hurry. He says never mind dolling
up, but just come along. He’s on the phone now and Miss Celeste says it
must be important because he sounds so brisk.” Thus spake Kit Williams,
going through the operation on sodden Jimmy known as “cold pigging”,
that is, applying a wet sponge to a sleeper’s face.
“Don’t hide! Get up and go to the phone,” insisted Kit as Jimmy
snuggled down in the bed clothes and again covered his tousled head.
“Aw gee! Have a heart, cantcher? Don’t go joking me, Kit, that’s a good
boy.”
“Well then, lose your job if you want to. What’s it to me? You blooming
idiot, didn’t you hear me say that the boss himself is hollerin’ for
you. I reckon he’s got a mouthfull to say about that lurid tale you
pulled off in this morning’s paper.”
“He saw it before it went in,” growled Jimmy. “If there is any trouble
it is up to him. Ain’t he the management?”
“I thought that would wake you up. Now get up and put on your dressing
gown--here it is--here are your slippers. Never mind your boudoir cap,
just slip along to the phone.”
Jimmy meekly obeyed. There was no use in grumbling when one’s boss was
on the line.
“Hello!” he said in a voice as sweet as honey.
“Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Be right down. Don’t let her get away.”
“Breakfast? No sir! What’s breakfast! Never eat on Sunday, that is,
breakfast. Be down in a jiffy.”
It was a wide awake Jimmy who, after turning on a cold shower, tore
back to his room and began to throw on his clothes like a lightning
change vaudeville artist.
“So long, Kit, old fellow. Something big is up but I don’t know what.
It’s got something to do with Sherlocko Simpson, I think, but I’ll see
you later,” and the youngster was out on the street and running for a
trolley in less time than it would have taken the fire department to
answer an alarm.