Kitty Cleary's wide sidewalk, littered with trunks, and her narrow,
choked-up office, its window hung with theatre bills and chowder-party
posters, all of which were in full view of Kling's doorway, was the
half-way house of any one who had five minutes to spare; it was inside
its walls that closer greetings awaited those who, even with the
thinnest of excuses, made bold to avail themselves of her hospitality.
Drivers from the livery-stable next door, where Kitty kept her own two
horses; the policeman on the beat; the night-watchman from the big store
on 28th Street, just off duty, or just going on; the newsman in the
early morning, who would use her benches on which to rearrange his
deliveries--all were welcome as long as they behaved themselves. When
they did not--and once or twice such a thing had occurred--she would
throw wide the door and, with a quick movement of her right thumb, order
them out, a look in her eye convincing the culprits at once that they
might better obey.
Never a day passed but there was a pot of coffee simmering away at the
back of the kitchen stove. Indeed, hot coffee was Kitty's standby. Many
a night when she was up late poring over her delivery book, getting
ready for the next day's work, a carriage or cab would drive into the
livery-stable next door, and she would send her husband out to bring in
the coachman.
“Half froze, he is, waitin' outside Sherry's or Delmonico's, and nobody
thinkin' of what he suffers. Go, git him, John, dear, and I'll stir up
the fire. They ought to be ashamed of themselves, dancin' till God knows
when--and here it is two o'clock and a string of cabs out in the cold.
Thank ye, John. In with ye, my lad, and get something to warm ye up,”
and then the rosy-cheeked, deep-breasted, cheery little woman--she was
under forty--her eyes the brighter for her thought, would begin pulling
down cups and saucers from her dresser, making ready not only for the
“lad,” but for John and herself--and anybody else who happened to be
within call.
The hospitalities of her family sitting-room, opening out of the
kitchen, were reserved for her intimates. These she welcomed at any hour
of the day or night, from sunrise to sunset, and even as late as two in
the morning, if either business or pleasure necessitated such hours.
Tim Kelsey, the hunchback, often dropped in. Otto Kling, after Masie was
abed; Digwell, the undertaker, quite a jolly fellow during off hours;
Codman and Porterfield, with their respective wives; and, most welcome
of all, Father Cruse, of St. Barnabas's Church around the corner, the
trusted shepherd of “The Avenue”--a clear-skinned, well-built man,
barely forty, whose muscular body just filled his black cassock so that
it neither fell in folds nor wrinkled crosswise, and whose fresh, ruddy
face was an index of the humane, kindly, helpful life that he led. For
him Kitty could never do enough.
The office, sitting-room, and kitchen, however, were not all that
the expressman and his wife possessed in the way of accommodations.
Up-stairs were two front bedrooms, one occupied by John and Kitty,
and the other by their boy Bobby, while in the extreme rear, over the
kitchen, was a single room which was let to any respectable man who
could pay for it. These rooms were all reached by a staircase ascending
from a narrow hall entered by a separate street-door adjoining that
of the office. The door and staircase were convenient for the lodger
wishing to stumble up to bed without disturbing his hosts--an event,
however, that seldom happened, as Kitty was generally the last person
awake in her house.
The horses, as has been said, were kept in the livery-stable next
door--the brown mare, a recent purchase, and the old white horse, Jim,
the pride of Kitty's heart, in a special stall. The wagons were either
backed in the shed in the rear or left overnight close to the curb, with
chains on the hind wheels. This was contrary to regulations, and
would have been so considered but for the fact that the captain of
the precinct often got his coffee in Kitty's back kitchen, as did Tom
McGinniss, the big policeman, whose beat reached nearly to the tunnel,
both men soothing their consciences with the argument that Kitty's job
lasted so late and began so early, sometimes a couple of hours or so
before daylight, that it was not worth while to bother about her wagons,
when everybody else was in bed, or ought to be.
She was smoothing old Jim's neck, crooning over him, talking to him in
her motherly way, telling him what a ruffian he was and how ashamed
she was of him for getting the hair worn off under his collar, and he a
horse old enough to know better, Bobby's “Toodles,” an animated doormat
of a dog, sniffing at her skirt, when Otto and his friend hove in sight.
“The top of the mornin' to ye, Otto Kling, and ye never see a better
and a finer. And what can I do for ye?--for ye wouldn't be lavin' them
gimcracks of yours this time O'day unless there was somethin' up.”
“No, I don't got nudding you can do for me, Kitty. It's dis gentlemans
wants someting--and so I bring him over.”
“That's mighty kind of ye, Otto--wait till I get me book. Careful,
Mike.” The Irishman had just dumped a trunk on the sidewalk, ready to
be loaded on Jim's wagon. “And now,” continued his mistress, “go to the
office and bring me my order-book--where'll I go for your baggage, sir?”
“That is a matter I will talk about later.” He had taken her all in
with a rapid glance--her rosy, laughing face, her head covered by a
close-fitting hood, the warm shawl crossed over her full bosom and
knotted in the back, short skirt, stout shoes, and gray yarn stockings.
“I don't care where it is--Hoboken, Brooklyn--I'll get it. Why, we got a
trunk last week clear from Yonkers!”
“I haven't a doubt of it, my good woman”--he was still absorbed in the
contemplation of her perfect health and the air of breezy competency
flowing out from her, making even the morning air seem more
exhilarating--“but you may not want to go for my two trunks.”
“Why not?” She was serious now, her brows knitting, trying to solve his
meaning.
Kling shuffled up alongside. “It's de room he vants, Kitty. I been
tellin' him about it. Bobby says dot odder man skipped an' you don't got
nobody now.
“Skipped! I threw him out, me and John, for swearin' every time
he stubbed his toe on the stairs,” and up went her strong arms in
illustration. “And it isn't yer trunks, but me room. Who might ye be
wantin' it for?” She had begun to weigh him carefully in return. Up to
this moment he had been to her merely the mouthpiece of an order, to be
exchanged later for a card, or slip of paper, or a brass check. Now he
became a personality. She swept him from head to foot with one of her
“sizing-up” examinations, noticing the refinement and thoughtfulness of
his clean-shaven face, the white teeth, and the careful trimming of his
hair, and the way it grew down on his temples, forming a small quarter
whisker.
She noted, too, how the muscles of his face had been tightened as if
some effort at self-control had set them into a mask, the real man lying
behind his kindly eyes, despite the quick flash that escaped from them
now and then. The inspection over--and it had occupied some seconds of
time--she renewed the inquiry in a more searching tone, as if she had
not heard him aright at first. “And who did ye say wanted me room?”
“I wanted it.”
“Yes, but who for?”
“For myself.”
“What! To live in?”
“I hope so--I certainly do not want it to die in.” A quiet smile
trembled for an instant on his lips, momentarily lightening an
expression of extreme reserve.
“You won't do no dyin' if I can help it--but ye don't know what kind a
room it is. It's not mor'n twice as big as that wagon. And ye want it
for yourself? Well, ye don't look it!”
“I am sorry.”
“And it's only five dollars a week, and all ye want to eat--all we can
give ye.”
“I am glad it is not more. I may not be able to pay that for very long,
but I will pay the first week in advance, and I will pay the next one in
the same way and leave when my money is gone. Can I see the room?”
Again she studied him. This time it was the gray waistcoat, the
well-ironed shirt and collar, English scarf, and the blackthorn stick
which he carried balanced in the hollow of his arm. If he had been in
overalls she would not have hesitated an instant, but she saw that this
man was not of her class, nor of any other class about her. “I don't
know whether ye can or not,” came the frank reply. “I'm thinkin' about
it. You don't look as if ye were flat broke. If you're goin' to take me
room, I don't want to be watchin' ye, and I won't! Once we know ye're
clean and decent, ye can have the run of the place and welcome to it. We
had one dead-beat here last month, and that's enough. Out with it now!
How is it that a”--she hesitated an instant--“yes, a gentleman like you
wants to live over an express office and eat what we can give ye?”
He made a slight movement with his right hand in acknowledgment of the
class distinction and answered in a calm, straightforward way: “You
have put it quite correctly. I am, as you are pleased to state it, flat
broke--quite flat.”
“Well, then, how will ye pay me?” Her question, a certain curiosity
tinged by a growing interest in for all its directness, implied no
suspicion--but rather the man.
“I have just borrowed twenty-five dollars from Mr. Kling on something
which, for the present, I can do without.”
“Pawned it?”
“No, not exactly. Mr. Kling will explain.”
“It vas dot dressin'-case, Kitty, vat I showed you last night--de vun
vid dem bottles vid de silver tops--and dey are real--I found dot out
after you vent avay.”
Kitty's glance softened, and her voice fell to a sympathetic tone. “Oh,
that was yours, was it? I might have known I was right about ye when
I first see ye. Ye are a gentleman, unless ye are a thief, and I don't
belave that--nor nobody can make me belave it.”
Once more his hand was raised, and a smile flashed from his eyes and as
quickly died out.
“That is very good of you, Mrs. Cleary. No, I am not a thief. And now
about the room. Can I see it? But, before you answer, let me tell you
that I have only these twenty-five dollars on which I can lay my hands.
Some of this I owe to my landlady. The balance I am quite willing to
turn over to you, and when it is all gone I will move somewhere else.”
He drew a silver watch from his pocket. “You must decide at once; it is
getting late and I must be moving on.”
Kitty squared herself, her hands on her hips--a favorite gesture when
her mind was fully made up--looked straight at the speaker as if to
reply, then suddenly catching sight of a strapping-looking fellow in
blue overalls, a trunk on one shoulder, a carpetbag in his hand, called
out: “John, dear, come here! I want ye. Here, Mike! You and Bobby get
that steamer baggage out on the sidewalk, and don't be slack about it,
for it goes to Hoboken, and there may be a block in the river and the
ferry-boats behind time. Wait, I'll lend ye a hand.”
“You'll lend nothing, Kitty Cleary! Get out of my way,” came her
husband's hearty answer. “Ye hurt yer back last week. There's men enough
round here to--stop it, I tell ye!” and he loosened her fingers from the
lifting-strap.
“I can hist the two of ye, John! Go along wid ye!”
“No, Kitty, darlin'--let go of it,” and with a twist of his hand and
lurch of his shoulder John shot the trunk over the edge of the wagon,
tossed the bag after it, and joined the group, the stranger absorbed in
watching the husband and wife.
“And now the trunk's in, what's it you want, Kitty?” asked John
squeezing her plump arm, as if in compensation for having had his way.
“John, dear, here's a gentleman who--what's your name?--ye haven't told
me, or if ye did I've forgot it.”
“Felix O'Day.”
“Then you're Irish?”
“I am afraid I am--at least, my ancestors were.”
“Afraid! Ye ought to be glad. I'm Irish, and so is my John here, and
Bobby, and Father Cruse, and Tom McGinniss, the policeman, and the
captain up at the station-house--we're all Irish, except Otto, who is
as Dutch as sauerkraut! But where was I? Oh, yes! Now, John, dear, this
gentleman is on his uppers, he says, and wants to hire our room and eat
what we can give him.”
The expressman, who stood six feet in his stockings, looked first at
his wife, then at Kling, and then at the applicant, and broke out into
a loud guffaw. “It's a joke, Kitty. Don't let 'em fool ye. Go on, Otto;
try it somewhere else! It's my busy day. Here, Mike!”
“You drop Mike and listen, John! It's no joke--not for Mr. O'Day. You
take him up-stairs and show him what we got, and down into the kitchen
and the sitting-room and out into the yard. Come, now; hurry! Go 'long
with him, Mr. O'Day, and come back to me when ye are through and tell me
what you think of it all. And, John, take Toodles with you and lock him
up. First thing I know I'll be tramplin' on him. Get out, you varmint!”
John grabbed the wad of matted hair midway between his floppy tail and
perpetually moist nose, controlled his own features into a semblance of
seriousness, and turned to O'Day. “This way, sir--I thought it was one
of Otto's jokes. The room is only about as big as half a box car, but
it's got runnin' water in the hall, and Kitty keeps it mighty clean. As
to the grub, it ain't what you are accustomed to, maybe, but it's what
we have ourselves, and neither of us is starvin', as ye can see,” and
he thumped his chest. “No, not the big door, sir; the little one. And
there's a key, too, for ye, when ye're out late--and ye will be out
late, or I miss my guess,” and out rolled another laugh.
Kitty looked after the two until they disappeared through the smaller
door, then turned and faced Kling. “I know just what's happened, Otto--a
baby a month old could see it all. That man is up against it for the
first time. He'd rather die than beg, and he'll keep on sellin' his
traps until there's nothin' left but the clothes he stands in. He may be
a duke, for all ye know, or maybe only a plain Irish gentleman come to
grief. Them bottles ye showed me last night had arms engraved on 'em,
and his initials. I noticed partic'lar, for I've seen them things
before. My father, when he was young, was second groom for a lord and
used to tell me about the silver in the house and the arms on the sides
of the carriages. What he's left home for the dear God only knows; but
it will come out, and when it does it won't be what anybody thinks. And
he's got a fine way wid him, and a clear look out of his eye, and I'll
bet ye he's tellin' the truth and all of it. Here they come now, and
I'm glad they've got rid of that rag baby of Bobby's.” She turned to her
husband. “And, John, dear, don't forget that sewing-machine--oh, yes, I
see, you've got it in the wagon--go on wid ye, then!--Well, Mr. O'Day,
how is it? Purty small and cramped, ain't it? And there's a chair
missin' that I took downstairs, which I'll put back. And there's a
cotton cover belongs to the table. Won't suit, will it?” and a shade of
disappointment crossed her face.
“The room will answer very well, Mrs. Cleary. I can see the work of your
deft hands in every corner. I have been living in one much larger, but
this is more like a home. And do I get my breakfast and dinner and the
room for the pound--I mean for the five dollars?”
“You do, and welcome, and somethin' in the middle of the day if ye
happen to be around and hungry.”
“And can I move in to-day?”
“Ye can.”
“Then I will go down and pay what I owe and see about getting my boxes.
And now, here is your money,” and he held out two five-dollar bills.
Kitty stretched her two hands far behind her back, her brown holland
over-apron curving inward with the movement. “I won't touch it; ye can
have the room and ye can keep your money. When I want it I'll ask fer
it. Now tell me where I can get your trunks. Mike will go fer 'em and
bring 'em back.”
A new, strange look shone out from the keen, searching eyes of O'Day.
His interest in the woman had deepened. “And you have no misgivings and
are sure you will get your rent?”
“Just as sure as I am that me name is Kitty Cleary, and that is not
altogether because you're an Irishman but because ye are a gentleman.”
This time O'Day made her a little bow, the lines of his face softening,
his eyes sparkling with sudden humor at her speech. He stepped forward,
called to the man who was still handling the luggage, and, in the tone
of one ordering his groom, said: “Here, Mike!--Did you say his name was
Mike?--Go, if you please, to this address, just below Union Square-I
will write it on a card--any time to-day after six o'clock. I will
meet you there and show you the trunks--there are two of them.” Then he
turned to Otto, still standing by, a silent and absorbed spectator.
“I have also to thank you, Mr. Kling. It was very kind of you, and I am
sure I shall be very happy here. After I am settled I shall come over
and see whether I can be of some service to you in going through your
stock. There may be some other things that are valuable which you have
mislaid. And then, again, I should like to see something more of your
little daughter--she is very lovable, and so is her dog.”
“Vell, vy don't you come now? Masie don't go to school to-day, and
I keep her in de shop. I been tinkin' since you and Kitty been
talkin'--Kitty don't make no mistakes: vot Kitty says goes. Look here,
Kitty, vun minute--come close vunce--I vant to speak to you.”
O'Day, who had been about to give a reason why he could not “come now,”
and who had halted in his reply in order to hunt his pockets for a card
on which to write his address, hearing Kling's last words, withdrew to
the office in search of both paper and pencil.
“Now, see here, Kitty! Dot mans is a vunderful man--de most VUNDERFUL
man I have seen since I been in 445. You know dem cups and saucers vat
I bought off dot olt vomans who came up from Baltimore? Do you know dot
two of 'em is vorth more as ten dollars? He find dot out joost as soon
as he pick 'em up, and he find out about my chairs, and vich vas fakes
and vich vas goot. Vot you tink of my givin' him a job takin' my old
cups and my soup tureens and stuff and go sell 'em someveres? I don't
got nobody since dot tam fool of a Svede go avay. Vat you tink?”
“He can have my room--that's what I think! You heard what I said to him!
That's all the answer you'll get out of me, Otto Kling.”
“An' you don't tink dot he'd git avay vid de stuff und ve haf to hunt up
or down Second Avenue in the pawn-shops to git 'em back?”
“No, I don't!”
“Den, by golly, I take him on, und I gif him every veek vat he pay you
in board.”
Kitty broke into one of her derisive laughs. “YOU WILL! Ain't that good
of ye? Ye'll give him enough to starve on, that's what it is. Ye ought
to be ashamed of yourself, Otto Kling!”
“Vell, but I don't know vat he is vurth yet.”
“Well, then, tell him so, but don't cheat him out of everything but
his bare board; and that's what ye'd be doin'. Ye know he's pawnin'
his stuff; ye know ye got five times the worth of your money in the
dressing-case he give up to ye! See here, Otto! Before ye offer him that
five dollars a week ye better get on the other side of big John there,
where ye'll be safe, and holler it at him over them trunks, or ye'll
find yourself flat on your back.”
“All right, Kitty, all right! Don't git oxcited. I didn't mean nudding.
I do just vat you say. I gif him more. Oh! Here you are! Mr. O'Day, vud
you let me speak to you vun minute? Suppose dot I ask you to come into
my shop as a clerk, like, and pay you vat I can--of course, you are new
und it vill take some time, but I can pay sometings--vud you come?”
O'Day gave an involuntary start and from under his heavy brows there
shot a keen, questioning glance. “What would you want me to do?” he
asked evenly.
“Vell--vait on de customers, and look over de stock, and buy tings ven
dey come in.”
“You certainly cannot be serious, Mr. Kling. You know nothing about me.
I am an entire stranger and must continue to be. With the exception of
my landlady, who, if she knows my name, forgets it every time she comes
up for her rent, there is not a human being in New York to whom I could
apply for a reference. Are you accustomed to pick up strangers out of
the street and take them into your shops--and your homes?” he added,
smiling at Kitty, who had been following the conversation closely.
“But you is a different kind of a mans.”
No answer came. The man was lost in thought.
“Ye'd better think it over, sir,” said Kitty, laying a strong,
persuasive hand on his wrist. “It's near by, and ye can have your meals
early or late as ye plaze, and the work ain't hard. My Mike does the
liftin' and two big fat Dutchies helps.”
“But I know nothing about the business, Mrs. Cleary--nothing about any
business, for that matter. I should only be a disappointment to Mr.
Kling. I would rather keep his friendship and look elsewhere.”
Kitty relaxed her hold of his wrist. “Then ye have been lookin' for
work?” she asked. The inquiry sprang hot from her heart.
“I have not, so far, but I shall have to very soon.”
She threw back her head and faced the two men. “Ye'll look no further,
Mr. O'Day. You go over to Otto's and go to work; and it will be to-night
after you gets your things stowed away. And ye'll pay him ten dollars
a week, Otto, for the first month, and more the second if he earns it,
which he will. Now are ye all satisfied, or shall I say it over?”
“One moment, please, Mrs. Cleary. If I may interrupt,” he laughed, his
reserve broken through at last by the friendly interest shown by the
strangers about him, “and what will be the hours of my service?” Then,
turning to Otto: “Perhaps you, Mr. Kling, can best tell me.”
“Vot you mean?”
“How early must I come in the morning, and until how late must I stay at
night?”
The dealer hesitated, then answered slowly, “In de morning at eight
o'clock, and”--but, seeing a cloud cross O'Day's face, added: “Or maybe
haf past eight vill do.”
“And at night?”
“Vell--you can't tell. Sometimes it is more late as udder times--about
nine o'clock ven I have packing to do.”
O'Day shook his head.
“Vell, den, say eight o'clock.”
Again O'Day shook his head slowly and thoughtfully as if some
insurmountable obstacle had suddenly arisen before him. Then he said
firmly: “I am afraid I must decline your kind offer, Mr. Kling. The
latest I could stay on any evening is seven o'clock--some days I might
have to leave at six--certainly no later than half past. I suppose you
have dinner at seven, Mrs. Cleary?”
Kitty nodded. She was too interested in this new phase of the situation
to speak.
“Yes, seven would have to be the hour, Mr. Kling” said O'Day.
“Vell, make it seven o'clock, den.”
“And if,” he continued in a still more serious voice, “I should on
certain days--absent myself entirely, would that matter?”
Otto was being slowly driven into a corner, but he determined not to
flinch with Kitty standing by. “No, I tink I git along vid my little
Beesvings.”
O'Day studied the pavement for an instant, then looked into space as
if seeking to clear his mind of every conflicting thought, and said at
last, slowly and deliberately: “Very well. Then I will be with you in
the morning at nine o'clock. Now, good day, Mrs. Cleary. I know we will
get on very well together, and you, too, Mr. Kling. Thank you for your
confidence.” Then, turning to the Irishman: “Don't forget, Mike, that
the street-door is open and that I'm up two flights. You will find the
number on this card.”