All the way to his office, Joe was planning for a better acquaintance
with the girl on the first floor. He had had but a glimpse of the
mother, but even that brief insight had convinced him that she was
a woman of refinement, and must be handled with due regard for the
conventionalities of life.
The father he had not seen, his eyes having been fastened on the
trim figure of the girl in the close-fitting knitted jacket and
tam-o’-shanter hat. He had heard more or less conversation in a high
key, and had become aware of a strident voice soaring above the roar of
the street, but he was too much occupied with the new arrival to give
the incident further thought.
When Joe burst in, Atwater was in his shirt-sleeves, poring over a big
drawing, showing the ground-plan of a large office building for which
the firm were competing.
“By Jove, Sam, we’re in luck! Perfect stunner! Knocks cold anything you
ever saw! Regular Hebe. Come here and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Sam moved aside his T-square and followed his partner into a small
room, lighted by a punched-out skylight, which answered for their
private office.
“Now, go on, Joe, and hurry up. What are you driving at? The Long
Island woman has given us her cottage, hasn’t she? I thought that
sketch of yours would fix her.”
“Long Island woman be hanged, Sam. This is something brand-new. Early
colonial. Martha Washington when she was a girl. Beauties of the
republican court not in it! Prettiest little figure, and a pair of eyes
that would drive you crazy. And----”
Sam reached forward and grabbed Joe’s arm.
“What the devil are you talking about, Joe?”
“Miss Ford.”
“What Miss Ford?”
“The girl on the first floor.”
“Where?”
“Right below us, you lunatic! She got tangled up with the best bit
of Chippendale I’ve seen for years, and I helped her out. Glass all
smashed. Nearly broke her heart. Oh, you’ve got to see her, Sam, before
you----”
Sam held both hands to his head, expressive of the fear that his
precise and conservative mind was giving way.
“Joe, if it wasn’t but ten o’clock in the morning, and I didn’t know
that you were plumb sober when I left you at breakfast an hour ago, I’d
think you were boiling drunk. Now, pull yourself together, and give
it to me straight. What are you raving about? Is it an order for a
bungalow, or some girl who tramped up our stairs to sell you a ‘Trow’s
Directory’?”
Joe threw up his arms and let out a laugh that made the two draftsmen
in the next room raise their heads.
“None of ’em, you woodenhead. Listen, Sam, and I’ll put a fresh curl
in your hair. When I reached the sidewalk this morning, the whole
place--hall, steps, and curb--were cluttered up with furniture!
Everything from a flat-iron to a folding-bed was all over the lot. That
new family--the one Moses was telling us about last night--were moving
in. Mounted on a chair--just a plain kitchen chair, mind you--stood a
girl--oh, a daisy girl!--holding on to a dressing-table, its legs tied
up in a stove. And, Sam----”
“Her legs tangled up in--what are you talking about, Joe?”
“Not hers, you idiot! The Chippendale’s.”
“Well, then, what’s the girl got to do with it?”
“Don’t I tell you she owned the table? She was all broken up. Called
her ‘darling.’ Was just bursting into tears when I made a dive,
grabbed the eighteenth-century relic by one corner, lifted it over
everybody’s head, carried it inside, and laid it at the feet of a
rather demoralized woman--no doubt her mother--her head tied up in a
green veil. Hence, ‘Thanks,’ grateful looks, and ‘Oh, so kind of you,
sir’--that sort of thing. Returned to the girl, apologized, more ‘Oh,
thank yous,’ and retired in good order. A perfect stunner, I tell you,
Sam! I knew we’d strike it rich when you picked out that old rookery.
We’ll begin to live now. She’s right below. Go down any time she sends
for us. I’ve been thinking it over, and the first thing to do is to
have a tea. Got to be hospitable, you know. We’ve just moved in, and
they’ve just moved in. We’ve been there the longest, and, therefore, we
make the advances. That would be the decent thing to do if there wasn’t
any girl. Don’t you think so?”
Sam’s mind had begun to wander. He had listened to a dozen just such
outbursts in the past six months.
Joe rattled on:
“Of course, we must invite the mother and father. They won’t come. He
won’t, anyway. Mother might, so as to find out who we were and how
we lived, and after that it will be easy-going with the daughter.
I’ll send for Higgins and his sister, and you get Matty Sands and her
mother, and--”
Sam began moving toward the door.
“Better cut the tea out, Joe,” he said curtly.
“But you haven’t seen the girl; if you had, you’d----”
“No, I haven’t seen the girl, and I don’t want to see the girl. Bad
enough to give up a day’s work. We’ve got a lot to do, you know. A tea
smashes the whole afternoon. Make it at night.”
“Too expensive. Must have something to eat, and maybe something to
drink. Moses and his wife could work the hot-water-and-sandwiches
racket, all right, but a supper, no--can’t see it--break us.”
“Well, make it a musicale, and send for Paul Lambing and his violin.
I’ll do the piano. Maybe your girl can sing.”
“No; she can’t sing.”
“How do you know she can’t sing?”
“Because she don’t look like a girl who can sing. I can tell every
time.”
“Well what _does_ she look like?”
“She’s a perfect stunner, I tell you.”
“Yes, you’ve said that three times already. Now give us the details.
Elevation, openings, cornice, roof line, and----”
Again Joe roared, this time with his head thrown back, his white teeth
glistening. “That’s just like you, Sam, you never had a soul above
bricks and mortar, and you never----”
“Well, I don’t go out of my head over every petticoat I come across.”
He was inside the drafting-room now, and was holding the door open
between them. “And, another thing, Joe, take my advice and stop where
you are. The girl no doubt’s all right, and the mother may be all
right, but the father is a queer one. Looks like a cross between a
tract distributer and a lightning-rod man. Go slow, Joe,” and he shut
the door between them.
By the end of the week the Fords had settled down in their new
quarters, so far as outside activities were concerned. But what was
going on inside the unlucky suite of rooms, no one but Matilda knew.
Moses had volunteered the remark, that when a carpet was full of holes
“it didn’t make no diff’unce which side you laid down.” But whether
this mutilation was discovered in one of Fords’ Axminsters or in his
own floor coverings, Joe did not catch, nor did he press the inquiry.
His impatience, however, to get inside the sacred precinct was
not cooled, and he was still at fever heat. Nor had the proposed
entertainment been abandoned, Joe forcing the topic whenever the
opportunity offered, Sam invariably side-tracking it whenever it was
possible. To-night, however, Joe was going to have it out, and Sam,
being entirely comfortable, was prepared to listen. Neither of them
had engagements which would take them from their rooms, and so Joe
had donned his brown velvet jacket, and Atwater had slipped his thin
body into what Joe called his “High Church” pajamas, an embroidered
moiré-antique dressing-gown, cut after the pattern of a priest’s robe,
which a devoted aunt had made for him with her own hands, and which,
to quote Joe, “should always be worn with smoked glasses as safeguards
against certain dangerous forms of ophthalmia.”
Joe, finding another mail heaped up on his pad--there was always a
mail for Joe--had seated himself at his desk, his legs stretched out
like a ten-inch gun, his shapely feet in thin-soled, patent-leather
shoes, resting on one corner of the colonial. Sam occupied the sofa,
the slim curve of his girth almost parallel to the straight line of the
Hidalgo’s favorite lounge.
Several schemes looking to a further and more lasting acquaintance had
been discussed and rejected. One was to leave their own door ajar, be
in wait until Fords’ was opened, and then in the most unexpected manner
meet some one of the family on the stairs, Joe’s affability to do the
rest.
Another was to waylay Ford as he entered from the street, engage him
in conversation, and keep it up until he had reached his door, when
Joe would be invited in and asked to make himself at home. This last
was Atwater’s. Indeed, both of these “vulgar absurdities” (Joe’s
view-point) were Atwater’s.
“Well, then,” retorted Sam, “go down like a man--_now_. It isn’t too
late. It’s only nine o’clock. Ring the bell or pound on his door, and
present your card. That’s the way you would do anywhere up-town. Try it
here. Chuck that box of matches this way, Joe, my pipe’s out.”
Joe chucked, stretched his shapely legs another inch, and resumed:
“No, won’t do. Might all be out. All up with us then. Lightning-rod man
would wait a week, watch until he saw us go out, tiptoe up-stairs and
slip his card under the door. I couldn’t call again without upsetting
everything. They’d think I was trying to ‘butt in.’ Better way would be
to write the mother a note.”
“What kind of a note? Here, catch this box.”
“That’s the devil of it, Sam, I don’t exactly know. I’m thinking it
over.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what to say, and I’m not thinking it over. Say
you’re dead stuck on her daughter, and want to see more of her. That
you’re going to get up a musicale which you can’t afford, and that
you--oh, drop it, Joe, she’ll be asking us both to tea before the
week is out, and before a month the whole family will be borrowing
everything we own, and we’ll have to move out to get rid of them. I got
a crack at the mother a day or two ago. You didn’t see her this morning
because you had gone up on ahead, but a boy rang her bell as I passed.
One of these short, old family portraits kind of woman. Round and dry
as a bunch of lavender. Girl might be well enough, but my advice is to
cut it all out. Get a new line. We’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ve
carried the ground-plan as far as I can go, and you’ve got to pitch
into the details.”
Joe had dropped his feet to the floor, had squared himself at his
desk, and was half through a note. Sam had finished his outburst. His
partner’s advice on matters connected with their profession Joe always
respected; to listen to his views on social affairs was so much wasted
time.
The note finished, Joe shifted his seat and faced his partner, the
letter in his hand.
“Now, shut up, you hod-carrier, and pay attention. This is what I call
a corker! And you needn’t try to alter a line, because it’s going just
as it is.
“DEAR MRS. FORD:
“Would you think me presuming if I asked you to relieve the
loneliness of the two young men who occupy the third floor over your
head? Mr. Atwater and I have invited a few friends to come to our
rooms on Friday of this week at nine o’clock to listen to some good
music, and we would be most grateful if you and Mr. Ford and your
daughter would join the company,
“Yours sincerely,
“JOSEPH GRIMSBY.”
“How’s that?”
Atwater settled himself deeper into the sofa, gathered the ends of the
flaming robe closer about his thin body, and jammed a pillow under his
head; but no word escaped him.
“Well, I’m waiting,” insisted Joe; “what do you think of it?”
“That you’ll get the mother, who’ll come to spy out the land; that the
lightning-rod man will stay away, and that the girl, if she’s got any
sense, and I think she has from what you’ve told me, will wait for the
old lady’s report, and that that will end it. These people have come
here to get away from everybody. That girl, no doubt, is all they’ve
got, and they don’t want distinguished young architects mousing around.
Save your money, Joe.”
“That letter’s going, Sam, just as I’ve written it. It’s the letter of
a gentleman. Never will offend any lady, and she looks like one. Wait
till I seal it. It ought to go at once--now--this very night. You get
out of that Biblical bedquilt and get into your coat, slip down and
leave it at the door. That will give me another chance in case this
thing slips up. Could then make a suggestion about having the glass
repaired. Never thought of that until this minute.”
“I wouldn’t get off this sofa, Joe, for all the girls in New York. Put
a stamp on it, and I’ll mail it in the morning. There’s no hurry. We’re
going to be here all winter.”
“Mail it, you half-breed! Mail a letter, and you in the same house!”
“Well, send it down by Moses.”
“Well, that’s more like it! Touch that bell--will you?--you’re nearest.”
Sam reached out and pressed a button within a foot of his head. Joe
slipped the note into an envelope, sealed it with violet wax, waited
until the little puddle was big enough to engulf the Grimsby crest
engraved on his seal-ring, and was about to repeat the summons, when
there came a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
The darky entered, his back crooked like a folding jack-knife.
“I knowed dat was yo’ ring, Mr. Joe, before it got done tinglin’.”
A new--or rather an added joy--had crept again into the old slave’s
heart--the joy of serving a white man whom he respected, and who was
kind to him.
“You’re wrong, Gargoyles, that was Mr. Atwater’s ring!”
“Well, den you gib his touch.” And again Moses’ back was bent double.
“Wrong again, Moses. That the bell rang at all is entirely owing to the
fact that the button was within reach of the distinguished architect’s
hand. Had it been six inches farther down the wall, I should have been
obliged to tingle it myself.”
“Yas, sah.”
“The distinguished architect, Moses, suffers from an acute form of
inertia, _Moses_, owing to the fact that he was born tired.”
“Yas, sah.”
“And furthermore, Moses, he has so little knowledge of the ordinary
civilities of life, that but for your kindly help he would have
intrusted this delicately addressed missive, illumined with the Grimsby
crest, to a cast-iron box decorating a street corner.”
“Yas, sah.”
Any further comment would have been presumptuous. None of this
conversation, as he well knew, having been addressed to himself.
“And now, stop genuflecting, you chunk of darkness, and listen. Step
down-stairs, rap gently and discreetly at the closed portal of the Ford
family and pass in this letter.”
“Yes, sah, and den what?” He was included now.
“Nothing what, unless the young lady should open the door, when you
will ask her if there is any answer. If she says there is, and gives it
to you, you will bring it up here on the dead run.”
“And s’pose dat de--dat de--well, dat de gemman himself opens it?”
“What, the letter?”
“No, sah; de do’.”
“Hand him the letter all the same, say there is no answer; none of any
kind, and to prove it, amble down into your own coal-hole.”
Moses reached for the missive, laid it across the creases of his
wrinkled palm, and with a remark, “dat his old marse, Marse Robin,
had one of dem little seals hangin’ to his watch-fob,” closed the door
behind him.
With the departure of the darky a waiting calm fell upon the room. Joe
resumed his task at his desk, and Sam continued to flatten out the
several parts of his body until each inch of his lower length had found
a resting-place.
“Everybody out, or Moses would have come up again,” remarked Joe,
glancing at the clock, “been gone five minutes now.”
“Holding a council of war. Mother in tears, and the girl in a rage.
At the present moment the lightning-rod man is looking for a club. My
advice to you is to get out of that velvet jacket, or it will be mussed
up before he gets through with you.”
Five minutes more. No Moses. No irate protector of the family. No news
of any kind.
Nor was any further information available the following morning when
Moses brought in their breakfast. “Didn’t nobody open de do’ but de
_hired_ girl, so I left it,” was his report. Moses’ mental distinction
between a hired girl and a servant was convincingly apparent in the
tones of his voice.
Nor was there any word sent to the office, nor had any message reached
their room when Joe arrived home to dress for dinner. The nearest
approach to a possible communication had been when he caught sight of
Miss Sue’s back as she tripped out of the front door, just before he
reached the sidewalk. But she was gone before he could have overtaken
her, had he so wished, the unanswered note having now set up an
insurmountable barrier between them.
Positive information reached him on his return home that night. He
had occupied a front seat at Wallack’s, Mrs. Southgate having given a
débutante a chance to be seen. Sam had kept awake and was waiting for
him.
“Well, it’s come, Joe,” he shouted, before the absentee had closed the
door behind him.
“What’s come?”
“The letter. She slipped it under the door after you left, and I came
mighty near stepping on it when I came in half an hour ago. Looks like
a railroad time-table, or a set of specifications.”
“The devil you did! What does she say? Is she coming?”
“How do I know? Haven’t opened it. It’s addressed to you.”
Joe caught up the letter, dropped into a chair and tore apart the
envelope. Inside was the missive and a printed enclosure.
Sam edged nearer, awaiting the verdict, his eyes reading Joe’s face as
he scanned the lines.
Joe read on to the end, and passed the open sheet to Atwater without
a word. It bore the image and superscription of “The United Family
Laundry Association, Limited,” and was signed by the vice-president and
treasurer.
“Read it, Sam, and go out in the hall and swear. _G-r-i-m-e-s-b-y_,
eh? Don’t even know how to spell my name. Here, hand it back, and
listen.
“JOSEPH GRIMESBY, ESQ.,
“Dear Sir: My wife can’t come. Neither can her daughter. But I will
show up at nine o’clock. I enclose one of our circulars. Look it
over. The last sale of our stock was at par.
“Yours, etc.,
“EBNER FORD,
“_Vice-President and Treasurer_.”
“Her daughter!” exploded Joe. “What does that mean?”
Sam staggered to the sofa, and fell along its length in a paroxysm of
laughter.
“Magnificent! Superb! He’ll show up, will he? Of course he’ll show
up--all of him. Oh, what a lark!”
Joe made a pianissimo beat with his outstretched hand in the hope of
reducing Sam’s volume of protest, and scanned the letter once again.
“Just my luck!” he muttered. “Always some vulgarian of a father or
crank mother gets in the way. No, we won’t have any party. I’m going to
call it off. Tell him I’ve just got a telegram. Sent for from out of
town. Professional business--that sort of thing. A man who will write
a letter like that in answer to one addressed to his wife would be an
intolerable nuisance. Couldn’t get rid of him with a dynamite bomb.
I’ll fix him, and I’ll do it now,” and he squared himself at his desk.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind, Joe,” returned Sam.
“Now, the girls are not coming, we’ll have the party, nuisance or no
nuisance. He’ll be more fun than a half-starved Harlem goat munching a
tin sign. We’ll cut out Matty Higgins and the other girls, and make it
a stag. Just you leave it to me. I’ll take care of him, and if there’s
anything in him, I’ll get it out. If he can’t sing, he’ll dance. If he
won’t do either, I’ll stand him on his head.”
That Sam should be willing, even enthusiastic, over the admission of
any one member of the Ford family was a point gained in Joe’s mind.
Whether, when he had once gained admission to the family circle, he
could stand the surroundings, he would decide upon later. Mrs. Ford was
evidently a woman of breeding and refinement; her daughter was--well,
there was no use discussing that with Sam. Sam never went out of his
way to be polite to any woman, young or old. As to Ford, Senior, there
must be a good side to him or he could not be where he was. There was
no question that he was unaccustomed to the usages of good society; his
note showed that. So were a lot of other men he knew who were engrossed
in their business.
Yes, he would have the party, and the next week he would give a tea,
whether Sam was willing or not, and Miss Ford would pour it, or he
would miss his guess. To keep on living on the top floor of the same
house, day after day, and that girl two flights below, and not be
able to do more than wish her “good morning” when he met her on the
stairs--perhaps not even that--was, to a man of his parts, unthinkable.
Yes, the party was the thing, and it would be a stag. And he would
send for the fellows the very next day, which was done as soon as he
reached his office, both by note and messenger. “Just to whoop things
up in the new quarters,” ran the notes, and, “Well, then, all right,
we’ll expect you around nine,” rounded up the verbal invitations.
Lambing was to arrive early so that he and Sam could arrange one
of their latest duets, Atwater to rattle the keys, and Lambing to
scrape the catgut. Talcott, the portrait-painter, was also to come.
Babson, a brother architect, who had won the gold medal at the League,
Sampson, Billings, and a lot more. For refreshments there would be a
chafing-dish and unlimited beer in bottles, which Moses was to serve,
and a bowl of tobacco, not to mention a varied assortment of pipes,
some of clay, with a sprinkling of corn-cobs, the whole to be gladdened
by such sandwiches as Matilda could improvise from sundry loaves of
baker’s bread and boiled ham. These last Joe attended to himself; the
musical and literary features of the evening being left in the hands
of his partner. In this was included the standing on his head the
principal guest of the evening, provided that worthy gentleman was
incapable of furnishing any other form of diversion.