In the days when Otto Kling's shop-windows attracted collectors in
search of curios and battered furniture, “The Avenue,” as its denizens
always called Fourth Avenue between Madison Square Garden and the
tunnel, was a little city in itself.
Almost all the needs of a greater one could be supplied by the stores
fronting its sidewalks. If tea, coffee, sugar, and similar stimulating
and soothing groceries were wanted, old Bundleton, on the corner above
Kling's, in a white apron and paper cuffs, weighed them out. If it were
butter or eggs, milk, cream, or curds, the Long Island Dairy--which was
really old man Heffern, his daughter Mary, and his boy Tom--had them
in a paper bag, or on your plate, or into your pitcher before you could
count your change. If it were a sirloin, or lamb-chops, or Philadelphia
chickens, or a Cincinnati ham, fat Porterfield, watched over from her
desk by fat Mrs. Porterfield, dumped them on a pair of glittering brass
scales and sent them home to your kitchen invitingly laid out in a flat
wicker basket. If it were fish--fresh, salt, smoked, or otherwise--to
say nothing of crabs, oysters, clams, and the exclusive and expensive
lobster--it was Codman, a few doors above Porterfield's, who had them on
ice, or in barrels, the varnished claws of the lobsters thrust out like
the hands of a drowning man.
Were it a question of drugs, there was Pestler, the apothecary, with his
four big green globes illuminated by four big gas-jets, the joy of the
children. A small fellow this Pestler, with a round head and up-brushed
hair set on a long, thin stem of a neck, the whole growing out of a pair
of narrow shoulders, quite like a tulip from a glass jar.
And then there were Jarvis, the spectacle man, and that canny Scotchman
Sanderson, the florist, who knew the difference between roses a week
old and roses a day old, and who had the rare gift of so mixing the
two vintages that hardly enough dead stock was left over for funerals
including those presided over by his fellow conspirator Digwell, the
undertaker, who lived over his mausoleum of a back room.
And, of course, there were the bakeshop emitting enticing smells, mostly
of currants and burnt sugar, and the hardware store, full of nails and
pocket-knives, and old Mr. Jacobs, the tailor, who sat cross-legged on
a wide table in a room down four stone steps from the sidewalk, and the
grog-shops--more's the pity--one on every corner save Kling's.
Hardly a trace is now left of any one of them, so sudden and
overwhelming has been the march of modern progress. Even the little
Peter Cooper House, picked up bodily by that worthy philanthropist and
set down here nearly a hundred years ago, is gone, and so are the row
of musty, red-bricked houses at the lower end of this Little City in
Itself. And so are the tenants of this musty old row, shady locksmiths
with a tendency toward skeleton keys; ingenious upholsterers who
indulged in paper-hanging on the sly; shoemakers who did half-soling and
heeling, their day's work set to dry on the window-sill, not to mention
those addicted to the use of the piano, banjo, or harp, as well as the
wig and dress makers who lightened the general gloom.
And with the disappearance of these old landmarks--and it all took place
within less than ten years--there disappeared, also, the old family life
of “The Avenue,” in which each home shared in the good-fellowship of the
whole, all of them contributing to that sane and sustaining stratum,
if we did but know it, of our civic structure--facts that but few New
Yorkers either recognize or value.
On the block below Kling's in those other days was the quaint Book
Shop owned by Tim Kelsey, the hunchback, a walking encyclopaedia of
knowledge, much of it as musty and out of date as most of his books;
while overtopping all else in importance, so far as this story is
concerned, was the shabby, old-fashioned two-story house known the town
over as the Express Office of John and Kitty Cleary, sporting above its
narrow street-door a swinging sign informing inquirers that trunks were
carried for twenty-five cents.
And not only trunks, but all of the movable furniture up and down the
avenue, and most of that from the adjacent regions, found their way
in and out of the Cleary wagons. Indeed Otto Kling's confidence in
Kitty--and Kitty was really the head of the concern--was so great that
he always refused to allow any of her rivals to carry his purchases
and sales, even at a reduced price, a temptation seldom resisted by the
economical Dutchman.
Nor did the friendly relations end here. Not only did Kitty's man Mike
hammer up at night the rusty iron shutters protecting Kling's side
window, clean away the snow before his store, and lend a hand in the
moving of extra-heavy pieces, but he was even known to wash the windows
and kindle a fire.
That Mike had delayed or entirely forgotten to hammer up these same iron
shutters when the stranger brought in the dressing-case accounted for
the fact of Otto Kling's shop having been kept open until so late. It
also accounted for the fact that when the same stranger appeared early
the next morning (Mike was tending the store) and made his way to where
the Irishman sat he found him conning the head-lines of the morning
paper. That worthy man-of-all-work, never having laid eyes on him
before, at once made a mental note of the intruder's well-cut English
clothes, heavy walking-shoes, and short brier-wood pipe, and, concluding
therefrom that he was a person of importance, stretched out his hand
toward the bell-rope in connection with the breakfast-room above, at the
same time saying with great urbanity: “Take a chair, or, if yer cold,
come up near the stove. Mr. Kling will be down in a minute. He's
up-stairs eatin' his breakfast with his little girl. I'm not his man or
I'd wait on ye meself. A little fresh, ain't it, after the wet night we
had?”
“I left a dressing-case here last night,” ventured the intruder.
Mike's chin went out with a quick movement, his face expressive of
supreme disgust at his mistake. “Oh, is it that? Somethin' ye had to
sell? Well, then, maybe you'd better call durin' the day.”
“No, I will wait--you need not ring. I have nothing else to do, and
Mr. Kling may have a great deal. I take it you are from the north of
Ireland, either Londonderry or near there. Am I right?”
“I'm from Lifford, within reach of it. How the divil did ye know?”
“I can tell from your brogue. How long have you been in this country?”
“About five years--going on six now. How long have you been here?”
“How long? Well--” Here he bent over the table against which he had been
leaning, selected a cup from a group of china, turned it upside down
in search of the mark, and then, as if he had momentarily forgotten
himself, answered slowly: “Oh, not long--a few months or so. You do not
object to my looking these over?” he asked, this time reversing a plate
and subjecting it to the same scrutiny.
“No, so ye don't let go of 'em. Fellow come in here last week and broke
a teapot foolin' wid it.”
The visitor, without replying, continued his cool examination of the
collection, consisting of articles of different makes and colors.
Presently, gathering up a pair of cups and saucers, he said: “These
should be in a glass case or in the safe. They are old Spode and very
rare. Ah, here is Mr. Kling! I have amused myself, sir, in looking over
part of your stock. You seem to have undervalued these cups and saucers.
They are very rare, and if you had a full set of them they would be
almost priceless. This is old Spode,” he continued, pointing to the
cipher on the bottom of each cup.
“Vell, I didn't tink dot ven I bought it.”
There was no greeting, no reference to their having met before. One
might have supposed that their last talk had been uninterrupted.
“It vas all in a lump, and der vas a soup tureen in de lot--I don't know
vot I did vid it. I tink dat's up-stairs. Mike, you go up and ask my
little girl Masie if she can find dot big tureen vich I bought from old
Mrs. Blobbs who keeps dot old-clothes place on Second Avenue. And you
vas sure about dis china?”
“Very sure.”
“How do you know?”
“From the mark.”
“Vot's it vorth?”
“The cups and saucers would bring about two pounds apiece in London. If
there were a full dozen they would bring a matter of fifteen or twenty
pounds--some hundred dollars of your money.”
Kling stepped nearer and peered intently at the stranger. “You give dot
for dem?”
The man's eyebrows narrowed. “I am not buying cups at present,” he
answered, with quiet dignity, “but they are worth what I tell you.
“And now tell me vot dis tureen is vorth?” he asked as Mike reappeared
and set it on the table, backing away with the remark that he'd go
now, Mrs. Cleary would be wantin' him. Kling moved the relic toward the
expert for closer examination.
“Don't trouble yourself, Mr. Kling; I can see it. All I can say is that
the old lady must have known better days and must have been terribly
poor to have parted with it. What, if I may ask, did you pay her for
this?”
“Two dollars. Vas it too much?” The stranger had suddenly become an
important personage.
“No--too little. It is old Lowestoft, and”--here he took the lid
from the dealer's hand--“yes, without a crack or blemish--yes, old
Lowestoft--worth, I should say, ten or more pounds. They are giving
large sums for these things in London. Perhaps you have not made a
specialty of china.”
Otto had now forgotten the tureen and was scrutinizing the speaker,
wondering what kind of a man he really was--this fellow who looked and
spoke like a person of position, knew the value of curios at sight, and
yet who had confessed the night before to being behind with his rent and
anxious to sell his belongings to keep off the street. Then the doubt,
universal in the minds of second-hand dealers, arose. “Come along vid
me and tell me some more. Vot is dot chair?” and he drew out a freshly
varnished relic of better days.
The man seized the chair by the back, canted it to see all sides of it,
and was about to give his decision when the laughter of a child and the
sharp, quick bark of a dog caused him to pause and raise his head. A
white fox-terrier with a clothes-pin tail, two scissored ears, and two
restless, shoe-button eyes, peering through button-hole lids, followed
by a little girl ten or twelve years of age, was regarding him
suspiciously.
“He won't hurt you,” cried the child. “Come back, you naughty Fudge!”
“I do not intend he shall,” said the man, reaching down and picking
the dog up bodily by the scruff of his neck. “What is the matter, old
fellow?” he continued, twisting the dog's head so that he could look
into his eyes. “Wanted to make a meal of me?--too bad. Your little
daughter, of course, Mr. Kling? A very good breed of dog, my dear young
lady--just a little nervous, and that is in his favor. Now, sir, make
your excuses to your mistress,” and he placed the terrier in her arms.
The child lifted her face toward his in delight. Most of the men whom
Fudge attacked either shrunk out of his way or replied to his attentions
with a kick.
“You love dogs, don't you, sir?” she asked. Fudge was now routing his
sharp nose under her chin as if in apology for his antics.
“I am afraid I do, and I am glad you do--they are sometimes the best
friends one has.”
“Yes,” broke in Kling, “and so am I glad. Dot dog is more as a brudder
to my Masie, ain't he, Beesvings? And now you run avay, dear, and play,
and take Fudge vid you and say 'Good morning' to Mrs. Cleary, and maybe
dot fool dog of Bobby's be home.” He stooped and kissed her, caressing
her cheek with his thumb and forefinger, as he pushed her toward the
door, and again turned to the stranger. “And now, vot about dot chair
you got in your hand?”
“Oh, the chair! I had forgotten that you had asked. Your little daughter
drove everything else out of my head. Let me have a closer look.” He
swung it round to get a nearer view.
“The legs--that is, three of them--are Chippendale. The back is a
nondescript of something--I cannot tell. Perhaps from some colonial
remnant.”
“Vot's it vorth?”
“Nothing, except to sit upon.”
Otto laughed--a gurgling, chuckling laugh, his pudgy nose wrinkling like
a rabbit's.
“Ain't dot funny!” and he rubbed his fat hands. “Dot's true. Yes, I
make it myselluf--and five oders, vich vas sold out of a lot of olt
furniture. I got two German men down-stairs puttin' in new legs and new
backs; dey can do anyting. Nobody but you find dot out. I guess you know
'bout dot china--I must look into dot. Maybe some mens on Fifth Avenue
buy dot china--dey never come in here because dey tink dey find only olt
furniture. And now about dot dressing-case. Don't you sell it. I find
somebody pay more as I can give, and you pay me for my trouble. I lend
you tventy--yes, I lend tventy-five dollars on it. Vill dot be enough?”
“That will be enough for a week, after I pay what I owe.”
“Vell, den, ven dot is gone ve tink out someting else, don't ve? I look
it all over last night. It is all right--no breaks anyvere. And dot
tventy-five only last you a veek! Vy is dot? Vot board do you pay?” His
interest in the visitor was increasing.
“Eight dollars with my meals, whenever my landlady is on time.”
“Eight dollars! Dot voman's robbin' you. Eight dollars! She is a skin!”
“It was the best I could do,” he replied simply.
“Vot does she give you?”
“A small bedroom, my coffee in the morning, and my dinner--both served
in my room on a tray.”
“Yes, I see; dot's it. She charge about tree dollars for de tray. I
find you someting better as dot. Kitty Cleary has a room--you don't know
Kitty? Vell, you ought to begin right avay. Dot's vun voman you don't
ever see again. She vas in here last night, after you left, looking for
her man Mike. She take you for five dollars a veek, maybe, and you get
good tings to eat and you get Kitty besides, and dot is vorth more
as ten dollars. She lives across de street--you can see one of her
vagons--dot big vite horse is hers, and she love dot horse as much as
she love her husband John and her boy Bobby, all but dot fool dog of
Bobby's, she don't love him. You go over dere and tell her I sent you.”
The stranger had relighted his pipe, and was watching the dealer
clutching nervously at his spectacles, pushing them far up on his
forehead, only to readjust them again on his nose. He had begun to
detect behind the fat, round face of the thrifty shopkeeper a certain
kindly quality. “And who may this remarkable lady be, this Mrs. Cleary?”
he inquired.
“She ain't no lady. She is better as a hundert ladies--she is joost a
plain vomans who keeps a express office over dere--Cleary's Express. You
don't know it? Vell, dot's your fault. Dot's her boy Bobby outside
de door. He has been up vid his fadder to de Grand Central for some
sideboards and sofas I been buyin'. You vant to look at 'em ven dey
git unloaded. They joost ready to fall to pieces, and if I patch 'em up
nobody don't buy 'em. Vot I do is to leave 'em out on de sidewalk for a
veek or two and let de dirt and rain get on 'em, den somebody come along
and say: 'Dot is genuine. You can see right avay how olt dot is. Dot
is because de bottom is out of de sofas, and de back of de behind of de
sideboard is busted. So den I get fifty dollars more for repairin' my
own furniture. Ain't dot funny? And ven I send it home dey say: 'Oh,
ain't dot beautiful! You ought to have seen dot ven I bought it of old
Kling! You vouldn't give two dollars for it. All he did vas to scrape
it down and revarnish it--and now it is joost as good as new.' Ain't
dot funny? Vy, sometimes I have to holt on to my sides for fear dey vill
split vid my laughter, and my two German mens dey stuff dere fingers
in dere mouths so de customers can't hear. And all de backs new, and de
legs made outer udder legs, and de handles I get across at de hardvare
store! Oh, I tell you, it's funny! But you know all about it. Maybe you
vunce keep a place yourself?”
“No, never.”
“VOT!”
“No, I have never been in your line of trade.”
“Vell, how do you know so much?”
“I know very little, but I have always enjoyed such things.”
“Vell, dot's more funny yet. You vould make a lot of money if you did.
Ven you get someting for nudding you know it--I don't. You see dem--vot
you call 'em--Spodes--and dot tureen, dot--”
“Lowestoft?” suggested the stranger, adjusting the mouthpiece of his
pipe.
“Yes, dot Lowestoft. If you come in yesterday and say, 'Have you any olt
cups and saucers and olt soup tureens?' I say: 'Yes--help yourselluf.
Take your pick for tventy-five cents each for de cups and saucers.' You
see, I pay nudding and I get nudding. Dot give me an idea! How vould you
like to go round de store vid me and pick out de good vuns? Dot von't
take you long--vait a minute--I give you dat money.”
“I should not be of the slightest value, and if you are loaning me
the twenty-five dollars on any other basis than the worth of the
dressing-case, I would rather not take it.”
“Oh, I have finished vid de loan. Vot I say I say.” He thrust his hand
into a side pocket, from which he drew a flat wallet. “And dere is de
money. I give you a receipt for de case.”
“No, I do not want any receipt. I am quite willing you should keep it
until I can either pay this back or you can loan me some more on it.”
“Vell, den, I don't vant no receipt for de money. Here comes a customer.
Don't you go yet. I know her. She comes most every day. She only vants
to look around. Such a lot of peoples only vants to look around.
Dey don't know vat dey vant and you never have it. No, it ain't no
customer--it's Bobby.”
The door was burst open, and a boy in a blue jumper, his cap thrust so
far back on his head that it was a wonder it didn't fall off, cried out:
“Say! One of the sideboards is stuck on the iron railing and we can't
get it furrards or back. Them two weiss-beers ye got down-stairs can't
lift nothin' but full mugs. Send somebody to help.” And the door went to
with a bang.
Kling was about to call for assistance when Hans--one of the
maligned--shuffled in from the rear of the store, carrying a wooden
image very much in want of repair.
“Oh, dots awful good you brought dot! Set it here on dis chair--now you
go avay and help vid dem sideboards. See here vunce, mister. You see,
dey vas makin' de altar over new, and one of de mens come to me last
week and he says: 'Mister Kling, come vid me and buy vot ve don't vant.
De school is too small, and some of de children got no place to sit down
in. Ve got to sell sometings, and maybe now ve don't vant dem images.'
And so I buy dem two and some olt vestments dat my Masie make so good as
new, vid patches. Now, vot can I do vid dis--?”
Again the door was burst open, shutting off all possibility for
conversation. Bobby's voice had now reached the volume of a fog-horn.
“What do ye take us fur out here--lobsters? Dad and I can't wait all
day. He's got to go down to Lafayette Place for a trunk.”
Kling looked at his companion, as if to see what effect the talk had had
upon him, and broke out into a suffocating chuckle. “Dot's vot it is all
day long--don't you yonder I go crazy? First it is sideboards and den it
is vooden saints. Here you, Bobby! Come inside vunce! I vant to ask you
sometings.”
“Say the rest, Skeesicks,” returned the boy, eying the stranger.
“Has your mudder got empty dot room yet?”
“Yep--the shyster got to swearin', and the mother wouldn't stand for it
and she fired him. We ain't keepin' no house o' refuge nor no station
parlor fer bums. Holy Moses! look at the guy that's been robbin' a
church! And see the nose on him all busted! Have ye started them mugs?”
Kling cleared the air with his fat hands as the boy made for the door,
and turned to his visitor once more. “Dot boy make me deaf vid his noise
like a fire-engine! Now, vunce more. Vat shall I do vid dis image?”
“I give it up,” observed the stranger, passing his hand over the head
and down its side. “I am not very much on saints--wooden ones, I mean.
He seems a good deal out of place here. Why buy such things at all, and
why sell them? But that, of course, is not your point of view. I would
send it back to the good father, if I were you, and have him put it
behind the altar if he is ashamed to put it in front. Holy things belong
to holy places. But I am already taking up too much of your time. Thank
you very much for the money. It comes at an opportune moment. I shall
come in once in a while to see you and, if you are willing, to talk to
you.”
“But you don't say nudding about Kitty's room. Vait till--oh, dere you
are, you darlin' girl! You mind de store, Masie. Now you come vid me and
I show you de finest vomans you never see in your whole life!”