William was an unconscious diplomat. His business career had already
been marked by the devotion of much time to the consideration of the
easiest methods of dealing with problems as they presented themselves
from time to time, though not always with success, and his first
perusal of the list of tenants handed him by Whimple showed him that
the job of rent collecting would be no sinecure. He knew his own
district very well; the work and conditions, the family life, and many
other details of a more or less intimate nature, were matters of
knowledge to him. He read the list over again as he turned down a
street to make his first call, and then passed the first house on his
list, and kept right on until he came to Jimmy Duggan's coal and wood
yard. Jimmy was located in his office, a wooden shack with a tin roof,
where he was laboriously engaged in the monthly task of straightening
out his books. To him William confided the errand entrusted to him,
and over the habits and the career of the first-named tenant on the
list there followed a solemn conference. At its close, William, with a
"Much obliged, Jimmy," sallied forth to the house he had passed on his
way, and knocked sharply at the door. A girl, untidy, unwashed, with a
face that might have been pretty if the coating of dirt upon it were
removed, appeared at the bay window of the ground floor. William knew
the girl and she knew William. Unabashed, he endured her calm
scrutiny, banking on his belief that she would never "tumble" to his
errand. She looked a long time, but finally came to the door and
slowly opened it. Whereupon William promptly stepped inside.
"Is Mister Jonas in?" he asked as he closed the door behind him.
"No," she said timidly.
"Ah! gone out for a walk I suppose?" said William politely.
In the dim light of the hall she looked at him with fear in her eyes.
"He's a great walker, I believe," William went on with a tinge of
sarcasm. "Out in the mornings, out in the afternoons, takes another
stroll in the evenings. Does he ever go to sleep?"
She made no answer, and William, who was at least a head shorter,
patted her on the shoulder. "Cheer up," he said patronisingly, "it's
all right. I've just come for the rent, that's all."
"For what?" she gasped.
"The rent; hadn't you better show me where he is right away?"
"Didn't I say he wasn't in?" she answered sharply.
"You did, my dear, but I'm willing to forget it. I believe that kinder
answer goes in polite society when the lady of the house don't want to
see anybody, and the lady what calls hopes that the lady she calls on
ain't in. But it don't go with me."
"But he ain't in," the girl whined.
"Then he's out for the first time in three years," was the rejoinder,
"and it's funny he'd pick rent day for a walk; him owing two months'
rent at that. P'raps he left the money with you?"
"No."
"H'm. Then I'll wait till he comes back."
"But he won't be back until to-night."
"All the same to me. I can wait; that's part of my work."
She shifted ground uneasily, and finally burst out, "He's in the
kitchen, Will Turnpike, and you can go in yourself. He's wild today."
William walked solemnly through to the kitchen where Jonas was sitting
by the window in a great arm-chair. A weird-looking figure he was,
muffled in an old overcoat, though it was summer and the day was warm.
A growth of untrimmed whiskers through which peered crafty eyes, and a
mass of long matted hair topping a big head, gave an uncanny appearance
to the man, who was a helpless cripple through rheumatism. He glared
at William, who cordially expressed the hope that he was feeling a
little better.
"Is that what she let you in for?" he demanded fiercely.
"Well, I didn't just put it to her in that way, if you mean your
daughter," said William calmly. "I'm after some money, to tell you the
truth."
"Money!" the old man shrieked the word.
"You heard me first time," returned William politely, "and ain't you
glad your sickness don't hinder your hearing some?"
"Money!" shouted the old man again. "Money! What do you want money
from me for?"
"The rent," said William calmly--"two months, due to-day. You can
read, I believe," and he held before the old man's face two receipts,
properly made out for the amounts due. "I see," he said, pointing to
an open letter on the window sill, "that you got Mister Whimple's note
about it. I'm the coll-ect-or he speaks of."
"You!"
"The same, Mister Jonas."
The man glared at him savagely, and then shouted, "You--you--get
t'hades out of this."
"Sure, I'll get out as soon as I get the rent. But as for the place
you speak of--not for mine. This is a good enough world for me, Mister
Jonas."
The old man fumed in helpless rage. He cursed William and his family
and their antecedents, cursed his daughter, cursed everybody and
everything for a full five minutes, and ended up with the declaration,
"I haven't got any money."
William silently regarded him for a moment, and then leaning forward a
little said, very clearly, "Well, I guess you ain't making so much as
you uster when you sold light-weight coal on the big contract from the
city, but I'm told on the best au-thor-ity, Mister Jonas, that you
ain't ever likely to know what it means to be without money."
For a long time then they looked at each other, fear on the old man's
face, William inwardly troubled, outwardly cool and unruffled. The old
man broke the silence.
"Mary, Mary," he screamed, and his daughter ran to him, "pay this young
ruffian two months' rent, and get the receipts from him, and if you
ever let him in again--I'll--I'll kill you."
When the transaction was completed, William turned to Jonas. "I'll be
here to the minute when the next rent's due," he said confidently, "and
it'll be ever so much nicer for you to have it ready, else," and here
he assumed what he believed to be the correct attitude for such an
occasion, "I'll have to have you turned out."
Then he left, the old man hurling curses at him until the door closed.
"He's gotter great line of talk," said William to himself. "Now for
Mrs. Moriarity," that lady being the next on his list. William knew
her for a good-natured, careless woman, who nevertheless was the real
head of the Moriarity household, which included nine children of
varying ages and sizes. Nothing was ever done on time in her house; no
bill was ever paid when it was due, though Mrs. Moriarity never tried
to evade one. She was just happy-go-lucky and careless.
William approached the house with some misgivings. A number of the
younger Moriaritys were playing around the door, and just as William
approached them a drunken man staggered up, singing loudly. He fell
over one of the children, and the youngster set up a howl that brought
the mother to the open door. She reached it just as the man, thrusting
out a long arm, brutally flung another child on one side. With an
angry cry the mother rushed for the brute, but William reached him
first. Without a word the boy stooped, grabbed one of the man's ankles
firmly, and, putting all his strength into the effort, pulled his foot
off the ground. The man lurched heavily and fell full length upon his
face, just escaping William, who stood upright, as Mrs. Moriarity,
talking volubly, plumped down on the man's back. "And here oi'll sit
till a p'licemon comes," she said; "you, William Turnpike, kape a
lukout for wan." And even as she said it a policeman came along and
took the drunken offender into custody. As the policeman marched his
prisoner away, Mrs. Moriarity turned to William, who was trying to
comfort the little Moriaritys, for those who had not been hurt were
crying as lustily from fear and sympathy as those who had. In the
short struggle with the man William's face had received a buffet that
had re-opened one of the scratches, and this was now bleeding somewhat
freely.
"For the luv of heavin, Willyum, did that brute do that to you?" cried
Mrs. Moriarity.
William tried to explain, but she never heard him. "It's good f'r him
Moriarity wasn't here or he'd a bruk his neck," she went on excitedly.
"Come on in," she ordered, "all ov yez; come on, Willyum." And William
went. She comforted her offspring and bathed William's face in warm
water, unheeding his protests and deaf to his explanation of the
original cause of his injuries. It was only after she had made him
drink a cup of tea and had sent the children out to their play again
that he was able to explain his errand.
"And yu're a rint collector--a bhoy loike you! Think ov that now.
Willyum, yu're mother ought to be proud ov yez. Sure an' oi'll pay the
rint: oi'd clane forgotten this was the day, but oi've some money by
me, bhoy, an' yez can have it." She escorted him to the door after the
rent had been paid over, patting him on the head, calling him a hero,
and telling him that "the rint wud always be rady for the loikes ov
him." And at the door, in the open light of day, she flung her arms
around his neck. "God bless yez, ye darlint," she said, and kissed him
warmly. William blushed all over, but went on his way rejoicing.
Whimple had told him that the other two tenants were always on time,
and this day William found it to be so.
It was nearly six o'clock when he started back to the office, one hand
holding the rents thrust deep into a pocket. Whimple, who had been
growing anxious at the boy's long absence, and had been blaming himself
for asking him to do the work, met him half-way to the office. "I was
a little bit worried," he said simply; "I'm afraid I made a mistake
putting so much responsibility on you, William."
But when, in the inner room of the office, William laid down the money
he had collected with the laconic statement, "It's kinder slow work,"
Whimple's misgivings fled.
"Bully for you, William," he said enthusiastically. "You're a winner.
There's a new day dawning for me--and for you. I have had two new
clients in to-day. You've brought me luck, boy."
And William grinned delightedly.