Bright and early the following morning Felix began work, and for the
next two days took entire charge of the room, walking up and down its
length, an absolute dictator, brooking no interference from any one.
When Mike's frowsy head or Hans's grimy hands appeared above the level
of the landing from the floor below, steadying with their chins some new
possession, it was either, “here, in the middle of the room, men!” or,
if it were big and cumbersome, “up-stairs, out of the way!” This had
gone on until the banquet hall was one conglomerate mass of mixed
chattels from the Jersey shop, Kling's old stock being stowed in some
other part of the building. Then began the picking out. First the
doubtful, but rich in color, tapestries, then the rugs--some fairly
good ones--stuffs, old and new, and every available rag which would
hold together were spread over the four walls and the front windows. The
heavier and more decorative pieces of furniture came next--among them
a huge wooden altar which had never been put together and which was now
backed close against the tapestries and hanging rugs in the centre of
the long wall. Two Venetian wedding-chests, low enough to sit upon, were
next placed in position, and between them three Spanish armchairs in
faded velvet and one in crinkly leather, held together by big Moorish
nails of brass. Above these chests and chairs were hung gilt brackets
holding church candles, Spanish mirrors so placed that the shortest
woman in the party could see her face, and big Italian disks of dull
metal. The walls were wonderful in their rich simplicity, and so was the
disposition of the furniture, Felix's skilful eye having preserved
the architectural proportions in both the selection and placing of the
several articles.
More wonderful than all else, however, was the great gold throne at the
end of the room, on which Masie was to sit and receive her guests and
which was none other than the big cardinal's chair, incrusted with
mouldy gilt, that had first inspired her with the idea of the party.
This was hoisted up bodily and placed on an auctioneer's platform which
Mike had found tilted back against the wall in the cellar. To hide its
dirt and cracks, rugs were laid, pieced out by a green drugget which
extended half across the floor, now swept of everything except two
refreshment tables.
Next came the ceiling. What Felix did to that ceiling, or rather what
that ceiling did for Felix, and how it looked when he was through with
it is to this very day a topic of discussion among the now scattered
inhabitants of “The Avenue.” Masie knew, and so did deaf Auntie
Gossburger, who often spent the day with the child. She, with Masie, had
been put in charge of the china and glass department, and when the
old woman had pulled up from the depths of a barrel first one red cup
without a handle and then a dozen or more, and had asked what they were
for, Felix had seized them with a cry of joy: “Oil cups! They fit on
the tops of these church lamps. I never expected to find these! Mike!
Go over to Mr. Pestler's and tell him to send me a small box of floating
night-tapers--the smallest he has. Now, Tootcums, you wait and see!”
And then the step-ladder was moved up, and Mike and one of the
Dutchies passed up the lamps to Felix, who drove the hooks into the
rafters--twenty-two of them--and then slid down to the floor, taking in
the general effect, only to clamber up again to lengthen this chain, or
shorten that, so that the whole ceiling, when the cups were filled and
the tapers lighted, would be a blaze of red stars hung in a firmament of
dull, yellow-washed gold.
The final touch came last. This was both a surprise and a discovery.
Hans had found it flattened out on the top of a big, circular table,
and was about to tear it loose when Felix, who let nothing escape
his vigilant eye, seized its metal handle, whereupon the mass sagged,
tilted, straightened, and then rounded out into a superb Chinese lantern
of yellow silk, decorated with black dragons, with only one tear in its
entire circumference, and that one Auntie Gossburger darned so skilfully
that nobody noticed the hole. This, Felix, after much consideration,
swung to the rafter immediately over the throne, so that its mellow
light should fall directly on the child's face.
Kling, while these preparations were in progress, was in a state of mind
bordering on the pathetic. Felix had made him promise not to come up
until the room was finished, but every few hours his head would be
thrust up over the edge of the stairs, his eyes screwed up in his fat
face, an expression of wonder, not unmixed with anxiety, flitting across
his countenance. Then he would back down-stairs, muttering to himself
all the time; his chief cause of complaint being the hiding of so many
things his customers might want to buy and the displaying of so many
others at which they might only want to look!
There was, however, even after the decorations seemed complete, a bare
corner to be filled with something neither too big, nor too small, nor
too insistent in color or form. Felix went twice over the stock, old
and new, twisted and turned, and was about to give up when he
suddenly called to Masie, his face lighting under the glow of a fresh
inspiration:
“I have it now! Come, Tootcums, with me! Mr. Sanderson will help us
out.” All of which came true; for Mr. Sanderson, ten minutes later,
had bent his head close to the child's lips to hear the better, and had
said: “Only two? Why, Masie, you can have the lot.” And that was how the
bare corner was filled with three great palms--the biggest he had in
his shop--and the grand salon of the Grande Duchesse Masie Beeswings de
Kling at last made ready for her guests.
This done, Felix made a final inspection of the room, adding a touch
here and there--shifting a piece of pottery or redraping the frayed end
of a square of tapestry--and finding that everything kept its place in
the general effect, without a single discordant note, drew Masie to a
seat beside him on one of the old Venetian chests. Here, with his arms
about the enthusiastic child, he laid bare the next and to him the most
important number on the programme.
And in this he wrought another upheaval, one almost as great as had
taken place in the room. The time-honored custom of all birthday parties
entailing upon the invited the giving of presents as proof of affection,
was not, he hinted gently, to be observed upon this occasion. “It is
Masie who is to give the presents,” he whispered, holding her closer,
“and not her guests.”
The child at first had protested. The long procession of guests coming
up to hand her their gifts, and her fun next day when looking them
over--knowing how queer some of them would be--had been part of her
joyful anticipation, but Felix would not yield.
“You see, Masie, darling,” he coaxed, “now that you are going to be a
real princess,” he was smoothing back her curls as he spoke, “you are
going to be so high up in the world that nobody will dare to give you
any presents. That is the way with all princesses. Kings and queens
are never given presents on their birthdays unless their permission is
asked, but, just because they ARE kings and queens, they give presents
to everybody else. And then again, Masie, dear, if you stop to think
about it, people really get a great deal more fun out of giving things
than they do of having things given to them.”
She succumbed, as she always did, when her “Uncle Felix,” with his voice
lowered to a whisper, his lips held close to her ear, either counselled
or chided her, and a new joy thrilled through her as he explained how
his plan was to be carried out.
Kling lifted up his hands in protest when he heard of O'Day's
innovation, but was overruled and bowled over before he had framed his
first sentence. It was the sentiment, Felix insisted, which was to be
considered, the good feeling behind the gift, not the cost of it. He and
Masie had worked it all out together, and please not to interfere.
But Kling did interfere, and right royally, too, when he found time to
think it over. Some one of the old German legends must have worked its
way through the dull crust of his brain, bringing back memories of his
childhood. Perhaps his conscience was pricked by his clerk's attitude.
Whatever the cause, certain it is that he crept up-stairs a few hours
before his house was to be thrown open to Masie's guests, and, finding
the banquet hall completely finished and nobody about, Felix and Masie
having gone out together to perfect some little detail connected with
the gifts, walked around in an aimless way, overwhelmed by the beauty
and charm of the interior as it lay before him in the afternoon light.
On his way down he met the deaf Gossburger coming up.
“Dot is awful nice!” he shouted. “I couldn't believe dot was possible!
Dot is a vunderful--VUNderful man! I don't see how dem rags and dot
stuff look like dot ven you get 'em togedder anodder vay. And now dere
is vun thing I don't got in my head yet: Vot is it about dese presents?”
The old woman recounted the details as best she could.
“And dot is all, is it, Auntie Gossburger? Only of pasteboard boxes
vid candies in 'em, and little pieces paper vid writings on 'em dot Mr.
O'Day makes? Is dot vot you mean?”
The old woman nodded.
Kling turned suddenly, went down-stairs with his head up and shoulders
back, called Hans to keep shop, and put on his hat.
When he returned an hour later, he was followed by a man carrying a big
box. This was placed behind Masie's throne and so concealed by a rug
that even Felix missed seeing it.
That everybody had accepted--everybody who had been invited--“big,
little, and middle-sized”--goes without saying. Masie had called at each
house herself, with Felix as cavalier--just as he had promised her. And
they had each and every one, immediately abandoned all other plans
for that particular night, promising to be there as early as could be
arranged, it being a Saturday and the shops on “The Avenue” open an hour
later than usual--an indulgence counterbalanced by the fact that next
day was Sunday and they could all sleep as long as they pleased.
And not only the neighbors, but Nat Ganger and Sam Dogger accepted.
Felix had gone down himself with Masie's message, and they both had said
they would come--Sam to be on hand half an hour before the appointed
hour of nine so as to serve as High Lord of the Robes, Masie having
determined that nobody but “dear old Mr. Dogger” should show her how to
put on the costume he had given her.
As for these two castaways, when they did enter the gorgeous room on the
eventful night they fairly bubbled over.
“Don't let old Kling touch it,” Ganger roared out as soon as he stepped
inside, before he had even said “How do you do?” to anybody. “Keep it as
an exhibit. Better still, send circulars up and down Fifth Avenue,
and open it up as a school--not one of 'em knows how to furnish their
houses. How the devil did you--Oh, I see! Just plain yellow-wash and the
reflected red light. Looks like a stained-glass window in a measly old
church. Where's Sam. Oh, behind that screen. Well come out here and look
at that ceiling!”
Sam didn't come out, and didn't intend to. He was busy with the child's
curls, which were bunched up in the fingers of one hand, while the other
was pressing the wide leghorn hat into the precise angle which would
become her most, the Gossburger standing by with the rest of the
costume, Masie's face a sunburst of happiness.
“And now the long skirt, Mrs. Bombagger, or whatever your name is.
That's it, over her head first and then down along the floor so she will
look as if she was grown up. And now the big ostrich-plume fan--a little
seedy, my dear, and yellow as a kite's foot, but nobody'll see it under
that big, yellow lantern. Now let me look at you! Nat, NAT! where are
you, you beggar, stop rummaging around that dead stuff and come behind
here and look at this live child! yes, right in here. Now look! Did you
ever in all your born days see anything half so pretty?” the outburst
ending with, “Scat, you little devil of a dog!” when Fudge gave a howl
at being stepped upon.
Masie, as she listened, plumed her head as a pigeon would preen its
feathers, stood up to see her train sweep the floor, sat down again to
watch the stained satin folds crumple themselves about her feet, and was
at last so overcome by it all that she threw her arms around Sam, to his
intense delight, and kissed him twice, and would have given Nat an equal
number had not Felix called to him that the guests were beginning to
arrive.
As to these guests, you could not have gotten their names on one side of
Kitty's order-book, nor on both sides, for that matter. There was brisk,
bustling Bundleton the grocer in a green necktie, white waistcoat,
and checked trousers, arm and arm with his thin wife in black silk and
mitts; there was Heffern the dairyman in funeral black, relieved by a
brown tie, and his daughter, in variegated muslin, accompanied by two
young men whom neither Kling nor Felix nor the Gossburger had ever
heard of or seen before, but who were heartily welcomed; there were fat
Porterfield the butcher in his every-day clothes, minus his apron, with
his two girls, aged ten and fourteen, their hair in pigtails tied
with blue ribbons; there were Mr. and Mrs. Codman, all in their best
“Sunday-go-to-meetings,” with their little daughter Polly, named after
the mother, pretty as a picture and a great friend of Masie--most
distinguished people were the Codmans, he looking like an alderman and
his wife the personification of good humor, her rosy cheeks matching the
tint of her husband's necktie.
There was Digwell the undertaker in his professional clothes, enlivened
by a white waistcoat and red scarf, quite beside himself with joy
because nobody had died or was likely to die so far as he had heard,
thus permitting him to “send dull care to the winds!”--his own way of
putting it. There was Pestler the druggist in an up-to-date dress suit
as good as anybody's--almost as good as the one Felix wore, and from
which, for the first time since he landed, he had shaken the creases.
There was Tim Kelsey, in the suit of clothes he wore every day, the only
difference being the high collar instead of the turned-down one, the
change giving him the appearance of a man with a bandaged neck, so
narrow were his poor shoulders and so big was the fine head overtopping
it. There were Mike and Bobby and the two Dutchies and Sanderson, who
came with his hands full of roses for Masie, and a score of others whose
names the scribe forgets, besides lots and lots of children of all sizes
and ages.
And there were Kitty and John--and they were both magnificent--at least
Kitty was--she being altogether resplendent in black alpaca finished off
by a fichu of white lace, her big, full-bosomed, robust body filling
it without a crease; and he in a new suit bought for the occasion, and
which fitted him everywhere except around the waist--a defect which
Kitty had made good by means of a well-concealed safety-pin in the back.
It was for Kitty that Felix had been on the lookout ever since the
guests began to arrive, and no sooner did her rosy, beaming face appear
behind that of her husband, than he pushed his way through the throng
to reach her side. “No, not out here, Mistress Kitty,” he cried. Had she
been of royal blood he could not have treated her with more distinction.
“You are to stand alongside of Masie when she comes in; the child has no
mother, and you must look after her.”
“No mother! Mr. O'Day! God rest your soul, she won't need to do without
one long, she's that lovely. There'll be plenty will want to mother, and
brother her, too, for that matter. My goodness, what a place ye made of
it! Look at them lamps, all fireworks up there, and that big chair! I
wonder who robbed a church to get it! Well--well---WELL! John! did
ye ever see the like? Otto, ye ought to rent this place out for a
chowder-party ball. Well, well, I NEVER!”
The comments of some of the others, while they voiced their complete
surprise, were less enthusiastic. Bundleton, after shaking hands with
Felix and Kitty, and then with Kling, dropped his wife and made a tour
of the room without uttering a sound of any kind until he reached Felix
again, when he remarked gravely: “I should think it would worry you some
to keep the moths out of this stuff,” and then passed on to tell Kling
he must look out “them lamps didn't spill and set things on fire.”
Porterfield, as was to be expected, was distinctly practical. “Awful lot
of truck when you get it all together, ain't it, Mr. O'Day? I was
just tellin' my wife that them two chairs up t'other side of the room
wouldn't last long in my parlor, they're that wabbly. But maybe these
Fifth Avenue folks don't do no sittin'--just keep 'em in a glass case to
look at.”
Pestler was more discerning. He had come across an iridescent glass jar,
and was edging around for an opportunity to ask Kling the price without
letting Felix overhear him--it being an occasion, he knew, in which Mr.
O'Day would feel offended if business were mentioned. “Might do to put
in my window, if it didn't cost too much,” he had begun, and as suddenly
stopped as he caught Felix's eyes fastened upon him.
There were others, however, whose delight could not be repressed. Tim
Kelsey, after the proper greetings were over, had wandered off down
the room, stopping to examine each article in its place on the walls.
Finally some pieces of old Delft caught his eye. He made a memorandum of
two in a little book he took from his inside pocket, and later on, when
a break in the surrounding conversation made it possible, remarked
to Felix: “They seem to get everything in the new Delft but the old
delicious glaze. On a wall it doesn't matter, but you don't feel like
putting real old Delft on a wall. I like to stroke it, as I would a
friend's hand.”
These inspections and comments over, and that peculiar timidity which
comes over certain classes lifted out of their customary environment and
doing their best to become accustomed to new surroundings having begun
to wear away under the tactful welcome of Felix, and the hour having
arrived for the grand ceremony of gift-giving, the throne was pushed
back, Masie called from behind her screen, and O'Day's wicker basket
filled with the presents was laid by the side of the big chair.
Kling and Kitty were now beckoned to and placed on the left of the
throne, Felix taking up his position on the right.
The stir on the platform caused by these arrangements soon attracted
everybody's attention and a sudden hush fell upon the room. What was
about to happen nobody knew, but something important, or Mr. O'Day would
not have stepped to its edge, nor would Otto have been so red in the
face, nor Kitty so radiant.
Felix raised his hand to command supreme silence.
“Masie wishes me,” he began in his low, even voice, “to tell you that
she has done her best to remember every one, and that she hopes nobody
has been forgotten. These little trifles she is about to give you are
not gifts, but just little mementos to express her thanks for your
kindness in coming to her first party. She bids me tell you, too, that
her love goes out to every one of you on this the happiest night of her
life and that she welcomes you all with her whole heart.”
He turned, stepped back a pace, made the radiant child a low bow, held
out his hand, and led her into full view of the audience, the rays of
the big lantern softening the tones of the quaint, picturesque costume
which concealed her slight figure, transforming the child of eleven into
the woman of eighteen.
For at least ten seconds, and that is a long period of time when your
heart is in your mouth and you are ready to explode with uncontrollable
delight, not a sound of any kind broke the silence, no handclap of
welcome, no murmur of applause; just plain, simple astonishment, the
kind that takes your breath away. That Kling's little girl stood before
them, nobody believed. O'Day had fooled them with this new vision, just
as he had bewitched them by the glamour of the decorated room. Only when
a few simple words of welcome fell from her lips were the flood-gates
opened. Then a shout went up which set the candles winking--a shout
only surpassed in volume and good cheer when Felix began handing up the
little packages from Masie's basket. And dainty little packages they
were, filled with all sorts of inexpensive souvenirs that she and Felix
(not much money between the two of them) had picked up at Baxter's
Toy Shop on Third Avenue, all suggested by some peculiarity of the
recipient, all kindly and good-natured, and each one enlivened by a
quotation or some original line in Felix's own handwriting.
During the whole delightful ceremony Otto had stood on the left of his
daughter, his heart thumping away, his face growing redder every minute,
his eyes intent on each guest elbowing a way through the crowd as Masie
handed them their gifts, noting the general happiness and the laughter
that followed the reading of the lines, wondering all the time why no
one was offended at the size and, to him, worthlessness of the several
offerings.
When it was all over and the basket empty, he jumped down from the
platform, his fat back bent in excitement, tossed aside the rug, lifted
the big box, placed it beside the gilt throne, and raised his puffy
hands to command attention: “Now listen, everybody! I got someting to
say. Beesvings don't have all dis to herselluf. Now it is my turn. Come
up closer so I get hold of you. Vait, and I git back on de platform.
Here, you olt frent of mine, Dan Porterfield, here is a new
butcher-knife sharpener for you, to sharpen your knives on ven you cuts
dem bifsteaks. And, Heffern, come close; here is a silver-plated skimmer
for dot cream you make, and a pig fan for your daughter. And Polly
Codman--git out of de way dere, and let Polly Codman come up!--here,
Polly, is a pair of gloves for you and a muffler for Codman, and here is
more gloves and neckties and--I got a lot more; I didn't got much time
and I bought dem all in a hurry--and dey are all from me and Masie and
don't you forgit dot. I ain't never been so happy as I am to-night,
and you vas awful good to come and see my little girl dot don't got no
mudder. And you must all tank Mr. O'Day for de great help he vas. Now
dot's all I got to say.”
He drew his hand across his eyes, made an awkward bow, and sat down.
Everybody gasped in amazement. Many of them had known him for years,
ever since he moved into “The Avenue”--twenty years, at least--but
nobody had ever seen him as he was to-night. That he had in his intended
generosity overlooked half of his friends made no difference. Those who
received something showed it for weeks afterward to everybody who came.
Those who had nothing forgave him in their delight over the good-will
he had shown to the others. Even Felix, who had been watching him soften
and thaw out under the warmth of the child's happiness, and who thought
he knew the man and his nature, was astounded, and showed it by grasping
for the first time his employer's hand, looking him in the eyes as he
said, “I owe you an apology, sir,” a proceeding Otto often pondered
over, its meaning wholly escaping him.
But the great surprise of the evening, in which even Felix had had no
share, was yet to come. He had carried out his promise to provide the
simple refreshments, and a table had been set apart for their serving.
The sandwiches made at the bakeshop a block below had already arrived
and been put in place, and he was about to announce supper, when he
became aware that a mysterious conference was being held near the top of
the stairs, in which Kitty, Polly Codman, and Heffern's daughter Mary,
were taking part. He had already noticed, with some discomfiture, the
absence of a number of male guests, half of them having left the room
without presenting themselves before Masie to bid her good night, and
was about to ask Kitty for an explanation, when a series of thumping
sounds reached his ear; something heavy was being rolled along the
floor beneath his feet. As the noise increased, Kitty and her beaming
coconspirators craned their necks over the banisters and a welcoming
roar went up. Bundleton's head now came into view, a wreath of smilax
wound loosely around his neck, followed by one of his men carrying a keg
of beer; another shouldering a sawhorse, a wooden mallet, and a wooden
spigot; and still a third with a basket of stone mugs.
“Come, folks and neighbors, everybody have a glass of beer with me!”
shouted Bundleton.
Up went the sawhorse before you would wink your eye! Down went the keg
across its arms, the smilax around it! Bang went the bung! In went the
wooden spigot! And out flew the white froth!
Another roar now went up, accompanied by great clapping of hands. It
was Codman's head this time, a cook's cap resting on his ears, his hands
bearing a great dish athwart which lay a cold salmon that the baker
had cooked for him that morning. Close behind came Pestler with a tray
filled with boxes of candy, and next Sanderson with a flattish basket
piled high with carnations, each one tied as a boutonniere; and
Porterfield with a bunch of bananas; and so on and so on--each arrival
being received with fresh roars and shouts of welcoming approval. Last
of all came Kitty, her face one great, pervading, all-embracing laugh,
her own big coffee-pot filled to the brim and smoking hot on a waiter,
her boy Bobby following, loaded down with cups and saucers.
Supper over--and it was a mighty feast, with everybody waiting on
everybody else, Kitty busiest of all, filling each cup herself--Digwell
the undertaker, who had really been the life of the party, remarked in
a voice loud enough to be heard half-way across the room that it was a
pity there was no piano, as a party could not be a real party without
a dance. At this Kling, who was having a mug with Codman, rose from
his seat, stepped to the top of the stairs and, looking over the crowd,
called for four strong men, “right avay, k'vick!” Codman, Pestler, Mike,
and Digwell responded, and before anybody knew where they had gone,
or what it was all about, up came an old-fashioned spinet, which Kling
remembered had been hidden behind a Martha Washington bedstead on the
floor below.
“All together, men!” shouted Codman, and it was picked up bodily,
whirled into position, dusted off in a jiffy, and ready for use.
At this Pestler sprang to his feet, shouted he was coming back in a
minute, rushed to the stairway, went down three steps at a time, bolted
through the front door, across the street, up into his bedroom, and back
again, all in one breath, waving his violin triumphantly over his head
as he entered.
And then it was that the real fun began. And then it was that virtue had
its own reward, for not a living soul in the room could play a note on
the spinet except the tallest and spookiest and, to all appearances, the
stupidest of the two young men, whom the Heffern girl had brought and
who turned out to have once been the star pianist in some dance-hall
on the Bowery. And the scribe remarks, parenthetically and in all
seriousness, that the way that lank, pin-headed young man revived the
soul of that old, worn-out harpischord, digging into its ribs, kicking
at its knees with both feet, hand-massaging every one of the keys up,
down, and crossways, until the ancient fossil fairly rattled itself
loose with the joy of being alive once more, was altogether the most
astounding miracle he has ever had to record. And Pestler with his
violin was not far behind.
Everything had now broken loose.
At the first note, up jumped Kitty, caught John around the neck, and
went whirling around the room. At the second note, up jumped Codman,
made a dive for Polly, missed her in the mix-up and, grabbing Mrs.
Digwell instead, went sailing down the room as if he had done nothing
else all his life. At the third note, away went Sanderson and Bundleton,
Heffern, everybody but the two castaways and Tim Kelsey, who beat juba
on their knees, old Sam Dogger playing a tattoo all by himself with two
knife-handles and a plate. Some danced with their own wives; some
with anybody's wife or daughter or child--a grand hullabaloo, down the
middle, across, back, and up again, until everybody was exhausted
and fell in a heap into Felix's Spanish chairs, or on his Venetian
wedding-chests, or wherever else they could find resting-places in which
to catch their breaths.
And now comes the crowning touch of all--the last of the evening's
surprises, and one remembered the longest because of its simplicity and
its beauty!
When everybody was resting, out stepped Felix, the light of the overhead
candles falling on his pale, thoughtful face, white shirt-front, and
faultless suit of black which fitted his well-knit, handsome frame like
a glove, and with him the Grande Duchesse Masie de Kling, the child
bowing and smiling as she passed, the wide leghorn hat shading her
face from the light of the lanterns above, her long train caught,
woman-fashion, over her arm. Then, with a low word to the pin-headed
young man, followed by a downward wave of his palm to denote the time,
and the child's fingers firm in his own, Felix led her through an
old-fashioned, stately minuet, telling her in an undertone just what
steps to take.
It was Sunday morning before the merry party broke up and streamed out
through Kling's lower shop, and so on into the street. Everybody had had
the time of their lives. Such remarks as “Would ye have believed it
of Otto?” or, “Wasn't Masie the sweetest thing ye ever saw?” or, “Just
think of Mr. O'Day fixing up that old junk room the way he did--ye can't
beat him nowheres!” or, “Oh, I tell ye, Otto struck it rich when he took
him on!”, were heard on all sides.
So loud were the laughter and chatter, the good nights and good-bys,
that big Tom McGinniss moved over from the opposite curb.
“Halloo, John!” cried the policeman. “I thought I couldn't be mistaken.
And Kitty, that you with your coffee-pot? I just come up from Lexington
Avenue and heard the row, wondering what was up. Is it up-stairs ye
were? WHAT! Dutchy givin' a ball? Oh, ye can't mean it! No, thank ye,
Kitty, it will be too late for ye all--I'll drop in to-morrow night.
Well, take care of yourselves,” and he disappeared in the darkness.
Felix watched the throng disperse, bade Kitty and John good night, and,
turning sharply, directed his steps toward Madison Square. Here he sank
upon a bench, away from the glare of an overhead lamp. For some minutes
he sat without moving, his mind wholly absorbed with the events of the
preceding hours. The roar and crush of the room came back to him. He
caught again the light in Masie's eyes as she followed his lead in the
dance and the mob of happy faces crowding to her side, and then with a
shudder he confronted the gaunt sorrow that had hourly dogged his steps.
An overpowering sense of depression now took possession of him. Pushing
back his hat as if to give himself more air, he was about to resume his
walk when he became conscious that something had stirred at the far end
of the seat.
Straightening his broad shoulders, his quick, alert manner returning, he
moved nearer, his eyes searching the gloom. A newsboy, a little chap of
seven or eight, his papers under him, lay fast asleep.
For an instant he watched the rise and fall of the boy's breath,
adjusted the short, patched coat about the little fellow's knees, and
then slid back to his end of the bench.
“Same old grind,” he said to himself, “no home--no money--cold--maybe
hungry. Never too young to suffer--never too old to eat your heart out.
What a damnable world it is!”
Rising to his feet, he felt in his pocket for a coin, widened the pocket
of the waif's jacket, and slipped it in. The boy stirred, tightened his
grasp on his papers, and lay still.
Felix looked down at him for a moment, turned, and with lightened steps
continued his walk.
“Well, thank God,” he said as he neared “The Avenue,” “Masie was happy
one night in her life.”