Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
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[Illustration: Copyright, 1911, by Dodd, Mead & Company
Nellie Duluth]
What's-His-Name
BY
GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
HARRISON FISHER
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1910, 1911
BY
GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
Published March, 1911
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Our Hero 1
II. Miss Nellie Duluth 31
III. Mr. Fairfax 71
IV. Luncheon 95
V. Christmas 124
VI. The Revolver 150
VII. The Lawyer 176
VIII. Blakeville 201
ILLUSTRATIONS
Nellie Duluth Frontispiece
Fairfax was sitting on a trunk, a satisfied
smile on his lips 67
Phoebe 134
He stopped, aghast, petrified 238
WHAT'S-HIS-NAME
CHAPTER I
OUR HERO
Two men were standing in front of the Empire Theatre on Broadway, at
the outer edge of the sidewalk, amiably discussing themselves in the
first person singular. It was late in September and somewhat early in
the day for actors to be abroad, a circumstance which invites
speculation. Attention to their conversation, which was marked by the
habitual humility, would have convinced the listener (who is always
welcome) that both had enjoyed a successful season on the road,
although closing somewhat prematurely on account of miserable booking,
and that both had received splendid "notices" in every town visited.
These two loiterers serve a single purpose in this tale--they draw
your attention to the principal character, to the person who plays the
title rôle, so to speak, and then, having done so, sink back into an
oblivion from which it is quite unnecessary to retrieve them.
The younger of the two players was in the act of lighting a
cigarette, considerately tendered by the older, when his gaze fell
upon the figure of the approaching hero. He hesitated for a moment,
squinting his eyes reflectively as if to make sure of both vision and
memory before committing himself to the declaration that was to
follow.
"See that fellow there? The little chap with his hands in his
pockets?"
The other permitted a vague, indifferent glance to enter the throng of
pedestrians, plainly showing that he did not see the person indicated.
(Please note this proof of the person's qualifications as a hero.)
"The fellow in front of Browne's," added the first speaker, so eagerly
that his friend tried once more and succeeded.
"What of him?" he demanded, unimpressed.
"That is What's-His-Name, Nellie Duluth's husband."
The friend's stare was prolonged and incredulous.
"That?"
"Yes. That's the fair Nellie's anchor. Isn't he a wonder?"
The object of these remarks passed slowly in front of them and soon
was lost in the crowd. Now that we know who he is we will say thank
you to the obliging Thespian and be off up Broadway in his wake, not
precisely in the capacity of spies and eavesdroppers, but as
acquaintances who would know him better.
He was not an imposing figure. You would not have looked twice at him.
You could not have remembered looking once at him, for that matter. He
was the type of man who ambles through life without being noticed,
even by those amiably inclined persons who make it their business to
see everything that is going on, no matter how trivial it is.
Somewhere in this wide and unfeeling world the husband of Nellie
Duluth had an identity of his own, but New York was not the place.
Back in the little Western town from which he came he had a name and a
personality all his own, but it was a far cry from Broadway and its
environments. For a matter of four or five years he had been known
simply as "Er--What's-His-Name? Nellie Duluth's husband!" You have
known men of his stripe, I am sure; men who never get anywhere for the
good and sufficient reason that it isn't necessary. Men who stand
still. Men who do not even shine by reflected glory. Men whose names
you cannot remember. It might be Smith or Brown or Jones, or any of
the names you can't forget if you try, and yet it always escapes you.
You know the sort I mean.
Nellie Duluth's husband was a smallish young man, nice-looking, even
kind-looking, with an habitual expression of inquiry in his face, just
as if he never quite got used to seeing or being seen. The most expert
tailor haberdasher could not have provided him with apparel that
really belonged to him. Not that he was awkward or ill-favoured in the
matter of figure, but that he lacked individuality. He always seemed
to be a long way from home.
Sometimes you were sure that he affected a slight, straw-coloured
moustache; then, a moment afterward, if you turned your back, you were
not quite sure about it. As a matter of fact, he did possess such an
adornment. The trouble came in remembering it. Then, again, his eyes
were babyish blue and unseasoned; he was always looking into shop
windows, getting accustomed to the sights. Trolley cars and
automobiles were never-decreasing novelties to him, if you were to
judge by the startled way in which he gazed at them. His respect for
the crossing policeman, his courtesy to the street-car conductor, his
timidity in the presence of the corner newsboy, were only surpassed by
his deference to the waiter in the cheap restaurants he affected.
But, ah! You should have seen him in that little Western town! He was
a "devil of a fellow" out there! He knew the policemen by their first
names and had no respect for them; street-car conductors were
hail-fellows well met, and the newsboys wore spectacles and said "Yes,
sir," to him. As for the waiters, he knew them all by their Christian
name, which usually was Annie or Mamie or Katie.
On Broadway he was quite another person. He knew his Broadway from one
end to the other--that is to say, he knew that side of the "Great
White Way" which stares you in the face and rebukes you for staring
back--the outside of Broadway. He had been on and off Broadway for a
matter of five years and yet he had never recovered from the habit of
turning out for every pedestrian he met, giving the other man the
right of way instead of holding to his own half of it, sometimes
stepping in puddles of water to do so and not infrequently being edged
off the curbstone by an accumulation of the unexpected.
Once in a while during his peregrinations some one recognised him and
bowed in a hesitating manner, as if trying to place him, and at such
times he responded with a beaming smile and a half-carried-out impulse
to stop for a bit of a chat, but always with a subsequent acceleration
of speed on discovering that the other fellow seemed to be in a hurry.
They doubtless knew him for Miss Duluth's husband, but for the life of
them they couldn't call him by name. Every one understood that Nellie
possessed a real name, but no one thought to ask what it was.
Moreover, Nellie had a small daughter whose name was Phoebe. She
unquestionably was a collaboration, but every one who knew the child
spoke of her as that "darling little girl of Nellie's." The only man
in New York who appeared to know Nellie's husband by name was the
postman, and he got it second-hand.
At the stage door of the theatre he was known as Miss Duluth's
husband, to the stage hands and the members of the chorus he was
What's-His-Name, to the principals he was "old chap," to Nellie
herself he was Harvey, to Phoebe he was "daddy," to the press agent he
was nameless--he didn't exist.
You could see Nellie in big red letters on all the billboards. She was
inevitable. Her face smiled at you from every nook and corner--and it
was a pretty face, too--and you had to get your tickets of the
scalpers if you wanted to see her in person any night in the week,
Sundays excepted. Hats, parasols, perfumes, and face powders were
named after her. It was Nellie here and Nellie there and Nellie
everywhere. The town was mad about her. It goes without saying that
her husband was not the only man in love with her.
As Harvey--let me see--oh, never mind--What's-His-Name--ambled up
Broadway on the morning of his introduction into this homely narrative
he was smiled at most bewitchingly by his wife--from a hundred
windows--for Nellie's smile was never left out of the lithographs (he
never missed seeing one of them, you may be sure)--but it never
occurred to him to resent the fact that she was smiling in the same
inviting way to every other man who looked.
He ambled on. At Forty-second Street he turned to the right, peering
at the curtained windows of the Knickerbocker with a sort of fearful
longing in his mild blue eyes, and kept on his way toward the Grand
Central Station. Although he had been riding in and out of the city on
a certain suburban train for nearly two years and a half, he always
heaved a sigh of relief when the gate-tender told him he was taking
the right train for Tarrytown. Once in a great while, on matinée days,
he came to town to luncheon with Nellie before the performance. On
Sundays she journeyed to Tarrytown to see him and Phoebe. In that way
they saw quite a bit of each other. This day, however, he was taking
an earlier train out, and he was secretly agitated over the
possibility of getting the wrong one. Nellie had sent word to the
theatre that she had a headache and could not have luncheon with him.
He was not to come up to her apartment. If he had known a human being
in all New York with whom he could have had luncheon, he would have
stayed in town and perhaps gone to a theatre. But, alas, there was no
one! Once he had asked a low comedian, a former member of Nellie's
company, but at the time out of a job and correspondingly meek, to
luncheon with him at Rector's. At parting he had the satisfaction of
lending the player eleven dollars. He hoped it would mean a long and
pleasant acquaintance and a chance to let the world see something of
him. But the low comedian fell unexpectedly into a "part" and did not
remember Nellie's husband the next time he met him. He forgot
something else as well. Harvey's memory was not so short. He never
forgot it. It rankled.
He bought a noon extra and found a seat in the train. Then he sat up
very straight to let people see that they were riding in the same car
with the great Nellie Duluth's husband. Lucky dog! Every one was
saying that about him, he was sure. But every one else had a noon
extra, worse luck!
After a while he sagged down into the seat and allowed his baby-blue
eyes to fall into a brown study. In his mind's eye he was seeing a
thousand miles beyond the western bank of the Hudson, far off into
the quiet streets of a town that scarcely had heard the name of Nellie
Duluth and yet knew him by name and fame, even to the remotest nook of
it.
They were good old days, sweet old days, those days when he was
courting her--when she was one among many and he the only one. Days
when he could serve customers in his shirt-sleeves and address each
one familiarly. Every one was kind. If he had a toothache, they
sympathised with him and advised him to have it pulled and all that
sort of thing. In New York (he ground his teeth, proving that he
retained them) no one cared whether he lived or died. He hated New
York. He would have been friendly to New York--cheerfully, gladly--if
New York had been willing to meet him halfway. It was friendly to
Nellie; why couldn't it be friendly to him? He was her husband. Why,
confound it all, out in Blakeville, where they came from, he was
somebody while she was merely "that girl of Ted Barkley's." He had
drawn soda water for her a hundred times and she had paid him in
pennies! Only five years ago. Sometimes she had the soda water
charged; that is to say, she had it put on her mother's bill. Ted
couldn't get credit anywhere in town.
And now look at her! She was getting six hundred dollars a week and
spurned soda water as if it were poison.
His chin dropped lower. The dreamy look deepened.
"Doggone it," he mused for the hundredth time, "I could have been a
partner in the store by this time if I'd stuck to Mr. Davis."
He was thinking of Davis' drug store, in Main Street, and the striped
blazer he wore while tending the soda fount in the summer time. A red
and yellow affair, that blazer was. Before the "pharmacy law" went
into effect he was permitted to put up prescriptions while Mr. Davis
was at meals. Afterward he was restricted to patent medicines,
perfumes, soaps, toilet articles, cigars, razor strops, and all such,
besides soda water in season. Moreover, when circuses came to town the
reserved-seat sale was conducted in Davis' drug store. He always had
passes without asking for them.
Yes, he might have been a partner by this time. He drew a lot of trade
to the store. Mr. Davis could not have afforded to let him go
elsewhere.
Five years ago! It seemed ages. He was twenty-three when he left
Blakeville. Wasted ages! Somehow he liked the ready-made garments he
used to buy at the Emporium much better than those he wore
nowadays--fashionable duds from Fifth Avenue at six times the price.
He used to be busy from seven A.M. till ten P.M., and he was happy.
Nowadays he had nothing to do but get up and shave and take Phoebe for
walks, eat, read the papers, tell stories to Phoebe, and go to bed. To
be sure, the food was good and plentiful, the bed was soft, and the
cottage more attractive than anything Blakeville could boast of;
Phoebe was a joy and Nellie a jewel, but--heigh-ho! he might have been
a partner in Davis' drug store if he'd stayed in the old town.
The man in the seat behind was speaking to him. He came out of his
reverie with a glad rush. It was so unusual for any one to take the
initiative that he was more than ready to respond.
"I see the Giants lost again yesterday," said the volunteer
conversationalist.
"Yes. Six to four," said our hero, brightly, turning in his seat. He
always read the baseball news. He could tell you the batting average
of every player in the big leagues for ten years back.
"Lot of bone-heads," said the other sourly. At first glance our friend
thought he looked like an actor and his heart sank. But perhaps he
might be a travelling salesman. He liked them. In either event, the
stranger's estimate of the New York ball team pleased him. He rejoiced
in every defeat it sustained, particularly at the hands of the
Chicagos.
"Not in it with the Cubs," he announced, blitheness in his manner.
Here was a man after his own heart.
But the stranger glared at him. "The Cubs?" he said, his voice
hardening, his manner turning aggressive.
"They make the Giants look like two-spots," went on our friend,
recklessly.
The stranger looked him over pityingly and then ended the conversation
by deliberately hiding himself behind his newspaper. Our hero opened
his lips to add further comment, but something in the way the paper
crackled caused him to close them and turn back to his bitter survey
of the Hudson. And the confounded fellow had invited his confidence,
too!
He got down at Tarrytown and started up the hill. The station-master
pointed him out to a friend.
"That's--er--What's-His-Name--Nellie Duluth's husband."
"That guy?"
"She keeps him up here in a cottage to take care of the baby. Away
from the temptations of the city," said the agent, with a broad wink.
"I didn't know she was married," said his friend, who lived in
Yonkers.
"Well, she is."
Mr.--(I declare, his name escapes me, so I will call him by his
Christian name, Harvey)--Harvey, utterly oblivious to the pitying
scrutiny of the two men, moved slowly up the road, homeward bound. He
stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to light a "Sweet Cap," threw
back his unimposing shoulders, and accelerated his gait a trifle in
deference to his position as the master of a celebrity.
It was his habit to take a rather roundabout way up to the little
cottage on the hill. The route led him past a certain drug store and
a grocer's where he was on speaking terms with the clerks. They knew
him. He did the marketing, but the account was in Miss Duluth's name.
A livery stable, too, was on the line of progress. He occasionally
stopped in to engage a pony phaeton for a drive in the afternoon with
Phoebe.
To-day he passed these places by. Every one seemed to be busy. He
could see that at a glance. So there wasn't any use stopping. That was
what he got for coming home from town in the middle of the day. He
nodded to several acquaintances--passing acquaintances in both senses
of the word. They turned to look after him, half-smiles on their
lips.
One woman said to another, "I wonder if he's really married to her?"
"If he wasn't, he'd be living in the city with her," was the complete
rejoinder.
"He seems such a quiet little man, so utterly unlike what a husband of
hers ought to be. He's from the far West--near Chicago, I believe. I
never can remember his name. Can you?"
"I've never heard it."
"It's not an uncommon name."
"Why doesn't he call himself Mr. Duluth?"
"My husband says actresses are not supposed to have husbands. If they
have them, they keep them in the background."
"That's true. I know I am always surprised when I see that they're
trying to get divorces."
Harvey was never so far in the background as when he appeared in the
foreground. One seldom took notice of him unless he was out of sight,
or at least out of hearing.
He was not effeminate; he was not the puerile, shiftless creature the
foregoing sentences may have led you to suspect. He was simply a
weakling in the strong grasp of circumstance. He could not help
himself; to save his life, he could not be anything but Nellie
Duluth's husband.
Not a bad-looking chap, as men of his stamp go. Not much of a spine,
perhaps, and a little saggy about the shoulders; all in all, rather a
common type. He kept his thin moustache twisted, but inconsistently
neglected to shave for several days--that kind of a man. His trousers,
no matter how well made, were always in need of pressing and his coat
was wrinkled from too much sitting on the small of his back. His
shirts, collars, and neckties were clean and always "dressy." Nellie
saw to that. Besides he always had gone in for gay colours when it
came to ties and socks. His watch-fob was a thing of weight and
pre-eminence. It was of the bell-clapper type. In the summer time he
wore suspenders with his belt, and in the winter time he wore a belt
with his suspenders. Of late he affected patent-leather shoes with red
or green tops; he walked as if he despised the size of them.
Arriving at the snug little cottage, he was brought face to face with
one of the common tragedies of a housekeeper's life. The cook and the
nursemaid, who also acted as waitress and chambermaid, had indulged in
one of their controversies during his absence, and the former had
departed, vowing she would never return. Here it was luncheon time and
no one to get it! He knew that Bridget would be back before dinner
time--she always did come back--but in the meantime what were they to
do? There wasn't a thing in the house.
He found himself wishing he had stayed in the city for luncheon.
Annie's story was a long one, but he gathered from it that Bridget was
wholly to blame for the row. Annie was very positive as to that.
"Have we any eggs?" asked the dismayed master.
"Eggs? How should I know, sir?" demanded Annie. "It's Bridget's place
to know what's in the pantry, not mine. The Lord knows I have enough
to do without looking after her work."
"Excuse me," said he, apologetically. He hesitated for a moment and
then came to a decision. "I guess I'd better go and see what we've
got. If we've got eggs, I can fry 'em. Bridget will be back this
evening."
"I'm not so sure of that," said Annie, belligerently. "I told her this
was the last time, the very last."
"I'll bet you a quarter she comes back," said he, brightly.
"Gee! What a sport you are!" scoffed Annie.
He flushed. "Will you please set the table?"
"It's set."
"Oh!"
"I'll help you make the toast, if you'd like," said she, a sudden
feeling of pity for him coming into her niggardly soul.
"Thanks," he said, briskly. "And the tea, too?"
"I think we'd better have coffee," said she, asserting a preference
for the housemaid's joy.
"Just as you say," he acquiesced, hastily. "Where is Phoebe?"
"Next door with the Butler kids--children, I mean. Maybe they'll ask
her to stay to lunch."
He gave her a surprise. "Go over and tell her to come home. I don't
want her staying to luncheon with those damned Butlers."
She stared, open-mouthed. "I'm sure, sir, they're quite as good as--as
we are. What have you got against 'em?"
He could not tell her that Butler, who worked in a bank, never took
the trouble to notice him except when Nellie was out to spend Sunday.
"Never mind. Go and get Phoebe."
He made a dash for the kitchen, and when the exasperated Annie
returned a few minutes later with Phoebe--rebellious Phoebe, who at
that particular moment hated her father--he was in his shirt-sleeves
and aproned, breaking eggs over a skillet on the gas stove. His face
was very red, as if considerable exertion had been required.
Phoebe was pouting when she came in, but the sight of her father
caused her to set up a shriek of glee.
"What fun, daddy!" she cried. "Now we'll never need Bridget again. I
don't like her. You will be our cook, won't you?"
Annie's sarcastic laugh annoyed him.
"I used to do all the cooking when the Owl Club went camping," he
announced, entirely for Annie's benefit.
"In Blakeville?" asked Annie, with a grin.
"Yes, in Blakeville," he exploded, almost dropping the cigarette from
his lips into the skillet. His blue eyes flashed ominously. Annie,
unused to the turning of the worm, caught her breath.
Suddenly obsessed by the idea that he was master in his own house, he
began strutting about the kitchen, taking mental note of the things
that needed attention, with a view to reproving Bridget when she came
back to the fold. He burnt his fingers trying to straighten the
stovepipe, smelt of the dish-cloths to see if they were greasy,
rattled the pans and bethought himself of the eggs just in the nick of
time. In some haste and embarrassment he removed the skillet from the
fire just as Annie came out of the pantry with the bread and the
coffee can.
"Where's the platter?" he demanded, holding the skillet at arm's
length. "They're fried."
"They'll be stone cold," said she, "waiting for the coffee to boil.
You ain't got any water boiling."
"I thought, perhaps, we'd better have milk," he said, gathering his
wits.
To his surprise--and to her own, for that matter--she said, "Very
good, sir," and repaired to the icebox for the dairy bottles. He was
still holding the skillet when she returned. She was painfully red in
the face.
Phoebe eyed the subsequent preparations for the meal with an
increasing look of sullenness in her quaint little face. She was
rather a pretty child. You would say of her, if you saw her in the
street, "What a sweet child!" just as you would say it about the next
one you met.
Her father, taking note of her manner, paused in the act of removing
his apron.
"What's the matter, darling?"
"Can't I go over to Mrs. Butler's for luncheon?" she complained.
"They're going to have chicken."
"So are we," said he, pointing to the eggs.
"I want to go," said Phoebe, stubbornly.
He coloured. "Don't you want to stay home and eat what daddy has
cooked?" he asked, rather plaintively.
"I want to go."
He could only resort to bribery. "And daddy'll take you down to see
the nickel show as soon as we've finished," he offered. The child's
face brightened.
Here Annie interposed.
"She can't go to see them nickel shows; Miss Duluth won't stand for
it. She's give me strict orders."
"I'll take good care of her----" began Phoebe's father.
"Miss Duluth's afraid of diphtheria and scarlet fever," said Annie,
resolutely, as she poured out a glass of milk for him.
"Not likely to be any diphtheria this time of year," he began again,
spurred by the kick Phoebe planted on his kneecap.
"Well, orders is orders. What Miss Duluth says goes."
"Ah, come now, Annie----"
"Say, do you want her to ketch scarlet fever and die?" demanded the
nurse, putting the bottle down and glaring at him with a look of mixed
commiseration and scorn.
"Good Heavens, no!" he ejaculated. The very thought of it brought a
gush of cold water to his mouth.
"Well, take her to see it if you must, but don't blame me. She's your
kid," said Annie, meanly, with victory assured.
"Make her say 'Yes,'" urged Phoebe, in a loud whisper.
He hedged. "Do you want to have the scarlet fever?" he asked,
dismally.
"Yes," said Phoebe. "And measles, too."
The sound of heavy footsteps on the back porch put an end to the
matter for the time being. Even Phoebe was diverted.
Bridget had come back. A little ahead of her usual schedule, too,
which was food for apprehension. Usually she took the whole day off
when she left "for good and all." Never before in the history of her
connection with Miss Duluth's menage had she returned so promptly.
Involuntarily the master of the house glanced out of the window to see
if a rain had blown up. The sun was shining brightly. It wasn't the
weather.
The banging of the outer door to the kitchen caused him to jump ever
so slightly and to cast a glance of inquiry at Annie, who altered her
original course and moved toward the sitting-room door. In the kitchen
a perfectly innocent skillet crashed into the sink with a vigour that
was more than ominous.
A moment later Bridget appeared in the door. She wore her best hat and
gloves and the dress she always went to mass in. The light of battle
was in her eye.
"We--we thought we wouldn't wait, Bridget," said Mr.--er--What's-His-Name,
quickly. "You never come back till six or seven, you know, so----"
"Who's been monkeyin' wid my kitchen?" demanded Bridget. She started
to unbutton one of her gloves and the movement was so abrupt and so
suggestive that he got up from his chair in such a hurry that he
overturned it.
"Somebody had to get lunch," he began.
"I wasn't sp'akin' to you," said Bridget, glaring past him at Annie.
He gulped suddenly. For the second time that day his eyes blazed.
Things seemed to be dancing before them.
"Well, I'm speaking to you!" he shouted, banging the table with his
clenched fist.
"What!" squealed Bridget, staggering back in astonishment.
He remembered Phoebe.
"You'd better run over to the Butlers', Phoebe, and have lunch," he
said, his voice trembling in spite of himself. "Run along lively
now."
Bridget was still staring at him like one bereft of her senses when
Phoebe scrambled down from her chair and raced out of the room. He
turned upon the cook.
"What do you mean by coming in here and speaking to me in that
manner?" he demanded, shrilly.
"Great God above!" gasped Bridget weakly. She dropped her glove. Her
eyes were blinking.
"And why weren't you here to get lunch?" he continued, ruthlessly.
"What do we pay you for?"
Bridget forgot her animosity toward Annie. "What do yez think o'
that?" she muttered, addressing the nursemaid.
"Get back to the kitchen," ordered he.
Cook had recovered herself by this time. Her broad face lost its stare
and a deep scowl, with fiery red background, spread over her features.
She imposed her huge figure a step or two farther into the room.
"Phat's that?" she demanded.
She weighed one hundred and ninety and was nearly six feet tall. He
was barely five feet five and could not have tipped the beam at one
hundred and twenty-five without his winter suit and overcoat. He moved
back a corresponding step or two.
"Don't argue," he said, hurriedly.
"Argue?" she snorted. "Phy, ye little shrimp, who are you to be
talkin' back to me? For two cents I'd----"
"You are discharged!" he cried, hastily putting a chair in her
path--but wisely retaining a grip on it.
She threw back her head and laughed, loudly, insultingly. Her broad
hands, now gloveless and as red as broiled lobsters, found
resting-places on her hips. He allowed his gaze to take them in with
one hurried, sweeping glance. They were as big and as menacing as a
prizefighter's.
"We'll discuss it when you're sober," he made haste to say, trying to
wink amiably.
"So help me Mike, I haven't touched a----" she began, but caught
herself in time. "So yez discharge me, do yez?" she shouted.
"I understood you had quit, anyway."
"Well, me fine little man, I'll see yez further before I'll quit now.
I came back this minute to give notice, but I wouldn't do it now for
twenty-five dollars."
"You don't have to give notice. You're discharged. Good-bye." He
started for the sitting-room.
She slapped the dining-table with one of her big hands. The dishes
bounced into the air, and so did he.
"I'll give this much notice to yez," she roared, "and ye'll bear it in
mind as long as yez stay in the same house wid me. I don't take no
orders from the likes of you. I was employed by Miss Duluth. I cook
for her, I get me pay from her, and I'll not be fired by anybody but
her. Do yez get that? I'd as soon take orders from the kid as from
you, ye little pinhead. Who are yez anyhow? Ye're nobody. Begorry, I
don't even know yer name. Discharge me! Phy, phy, ye couldn't
discharge a firecracker. What's that?"
"I--I didn't say anything," he gasped.
"Ye'd better not."
"I shall speak to--to Miss Duluth about this," he muttered, very red
in the face.
"Do!" she advised, sarcastically. "She'll tell yez to mind yer own
business, the same as I do. The idee! Talkin' about firing me! Fer the
love av Mike, Annie, what do yez think av the nerve? Phy Miss Duluth
kapes him on the place I can't fer the life av me see. She's that
tinder-hearted she----"
But he had bolted through the door, slamming it after him. As he
reached the bottom of the stairs leading to his bedroom the door
opened again and Annie called out to him:--
"Are you through lunch, sir?"
He was halfway up the steps before he could frame an answer. Tears of
rage and humiliation were in his baby-blue eyes.
"Tell her to go to the devil," he sputtered.
As he disappeared at the bend in the stairs he distinctly heard Annie
say:--
"I can see myself doing it--not."
For an hour he paced the floor of his little bed-chamber, fuming and
swearing to himself in a mild, impotent fashion--and in some dread of
the door. Such words and sentences as these fell from his
lips:--"Nobody!" "Keeps me on the place!" "Because she's
tender-hearted!" "I will fire her!" "Can't talk back to me!" "Damned
Irisher!" And so on and so forth until he quite wore himself out. Then
he sat down at the window and let the far-away look slip back into his
troubled blue eyes. They began to smart, but he did not blink them.
Phoebe found him there at four when she came in for her nap. He
promised to play croquet with her.
Dinner was served promptly that evening, and it was the best dinner
Bridget had cooked in a month.
"That little talk of mine did some good," said he to himself, as he
selected a toothpick and went in to read "Nicholas Nickleby" till
bedtime. "They can't fool with me."
He was reading Dickens. His wife had given him a complete set for
Christmas. To keep him occupied, she said.