A RICH MAN'S HOUSE
They rode up to Fifty-Ninth street, and transferring to a cross-town
car, got off at the Plaza. Evan's subconsciousness registered the fact
that the little fellow in grey was still travelling their way, but he
took no particular notice of him. Deaves led the way to one of the
magnificent mansions that embellish the neighbourhood. He handed his
bundle to Evan.
"You carry it," he said. "Maud always makes a fuss when I bring
bundles home."
"Who is Maud?" asked Evan.
"My son's wife; a great society woman."
"You want me to come in with you then?" said Evan.
"Yes, you're a good boy. I want to give you something."
Evan was surprised. "A dime, or even a quarter!" he thought, smiling
to himself. Nevertheless he went willingly enough, filled with a great
curiosity.
The house was a showy affair of grey sandstone built in the style of a
French chateau. But Evan's trained eye perceived many lapses of taste;
it was not even well-built; the window-casings were of wood when they
should have been of stone; the side of the house, plainly visible from
the street, was of common yellow brick. It looked like a jerry-built
palace for a parvenu. Evan wondered how the old money-lender had come
to be stuck with it.
"My son's house," said Deaves with a queer mixture of pride and scorn.
"I live with them. Sinful waste!"
He avoided the front door with its grand grill of polished steel. The
street widening had shorn off the original areaway of the house, and
the service entrance was now a mere slit in the sidewalk with a steep
stair swallowed up in blackness below. Down this stair old Simeon
Deaves made his way. Evan followed, grinning to himself. It was
certainly an odd way for a man to enter his own home.
"We won't meet Maud this way," Deaves said over his shoulder.
The remark called up a picture of Maud before Evan's mind's eye.
In the basement of the great house they met many servants passing to
and fro, before whom the old man cringed a little. These superior
menials turned an indifferent shoulder to him, but stared hard at Evan.
Evan flushed. Insolence in servants galled his pride. "If I paid
their wages I'd teach them better manners!" he thought.
Somewhere in the bowels of the house, which was full of passages like
all ill-planned dwellings, the old man unlocked a door and led Even
into a vaultlike chamber without a window. Carefully closing the door
behind them he turned on a light.
"This is where I keep all my things," he said innocently. "Maud never
comes down here."
Evan looked around. A strange collection of objects met his view; old
clothes, old newspapers, old hardware, in extraordinary disorder. It
was like the junk room in an old farmhouse. The walls were covered
with shelves heaped with objects; old clocks, broken china ornaments,
empty cans, pieces of rope, bundles of rags. On the floor besides,
were boxes and trunks, some with covers, some without; the latter
overflowing with rubbish. Evan wondered whimsically if the closed
boxes were filled with shining gold eagles. It would be quite in
keeping, he thought. But on second thoughts, no. Your modern miser is
too sensible of the advantages of safe deposit vaults.
Deaves found a place for his bundle of old clothes, and seeing Evan
looking around, he said with his noiseless laugh, which was no more
than a facial contortion:
"You never can tell when a thing will be wanted."
Turning his back on Evan he rummaged for a long time among his shelves.
Evan was somewhat at a loss, for his host appeared to have forgotten
him. He was considering quietly leaving the place when the old man
finally turned around. He had a small object in his hand which he made
as if to offer Evan, but drew it back suddenly and examined it
lovingly. It was a pen-knife out of his collection.
"Almost new," said Deaves. "The little blade is missing, but the big
blade is perfectly good if you sharpen it. Here," he said, suddenly
thrusting it at Evan as if in fear of repenting of his generosity.
"For you."
Evan resisted the impulse to laugh. After all the value of a gift is
its value to the giver. He pocketed it with thanks. It would make an
interesting souvenir. To produce it would cap the climax of the funny
story he meant to make out of this adventure. He turned to go.
"Don't be in a hurry," said Deaves. "Sit down and let's talk."
He evidently had something on his mind. Evan, curious to learn what it
could be, sat down on a trunk.
"You're a good boy, and a strong boy," said the old man. "I'd like to
do something for you."
"Don't mention it," said Evan grinning.
"Why don't you come every day and go out with me. I like to walk
about. I can't stay cooped up here. I like the streets. But people
recognise me."
"And make rude remarks," said Evan to himself.
"But with you I could go anywhere."
"Ah, a body-guard," thought Evan. The idea was not without its
attractions. It would be an amusing job. He said:
"If you want to hire me I'm willing. I need the money."
"Hire you!" said the old man in a panic. "I never said anything about
hiring you. I just mean a friendly arrangement. You have plenty of
time on your hands. I'll give you good advice. Show you how to become
a successful man."
"Thanks," said Evan dryly. "But the labels I paint bring in ready
money."
"Many a young man would be glad of the chance to go around with Simeon
Deaves," he went on cunningly. "It would be a liberal education for
you."
Evan got up. It was the best argument he knew.
"You could have your meals here," Deaves said quickly. "They eat well.
There's enough wasted in this house to feed an orphanage."
"Sorry," said Evan. "It doesn't appeal to me."
"Well, you could have a room on the top floor. You look pretty good;
Maud wouldn't mind you. Your living wouldn't cost you a cent."
Evan thought of the supercilious servants. Not for a bank president's
salary would he have lived in that house. He said: "I'm open for an
offer as I told you, but only during specified hours. I'd eat and
sleep at home."
"You're a fool!" said the old man testily. "Free board and lodging! I
haven't any money."
"All right," said Evan moving towards the door. "No harm done."
"Wait a minute. Maybe my son would lend me the money to pay you a
small salary. He says I oughtn't to go out alone."
"A small salary doesn't interest me," said Evan boldly. "Fifty dollars
a week is my figure."
Simeon Deaves gasped. "You're crazy. It's a fortune. At your age I
wasn't making a third of that!"
"Very likely. But times have changed."
The old man now opened the door for Evan. As he did so there was a
scuttle in the passage and a figure whisked out of sight. "Snoopers!"
thought Evan.
"Will you show me the way up-stairs?" he said. "I don't care to use
the servants' entrance."
"Sure, that's right," said Deaves soothingly. "I hope we won't meet
Maud. Always picking on me."
As they headed for the stairs he said cajolingly: "Fifteen dollars a
week; that's plenty to live on. Youngsters ought to live simply. It's
good for their health."
"But how about putting something by?" said Evan slyly.
"Well, I think my son might go as high as seventeen-fifty if I asked
him. Because you're a good boy and a strong boy."
"Thanks. Nothing doing."
As Evan resolutely mounted the stairs, the old man hobbling after said:
"Well, I'll add two and a half to that myself. But that's my last
word! Not another cent!"
"Nothing doing," said Evan again.
At the head of the stairs Deaves said nervously: "Better let me take a
look to see if Maud's around." He peeped out. "All right, the coast
is clear."
They were now in a square entrance hall of goodly size, very showily
finished like a hotel with veneered panels, which already showed signs
of wear. Imitation antique chairs stood about, and in front of the
fireplace, which was certainly never intended to contain a fire, was
spread a somewhat moth-eaten polar bear skin. Still it was grand after
a fashion, and the old man in his hand-me-downs looked oddly out of
place.
"Better think it over!" he said. "Twenty dollars a week! It's a
splendid salary!"
"Nothing doing," said Evan, grinning. In a way he liked the old
scoundrel.
Deaves affected to lose his temper. "Oh, you're too big for your
shoes!" he cried. "Your demands are preposterous!"
Evan continued calmly to make his way towards the front door.
Just before they reached it the old man made one last appeal. "Twenty
dollars!" he said plaintively.
A door at the back of the hall opened and an old-young man came out;
that is to say he was young in years, but he seemed to bear the weight
of an empire on his shoulders, and looked very, very sorry for himself.
He was dressed as if he had to be a pall-bearer that day, but that was
his ordinary attire. He looked sharply from the old man to Evan.
"Who is this, Papa?" he demanded with the air of a school-master
catching a boy red-handed.
The old man cringed. "This--this is a young man."
"So I see."
"Well, I--I didn't exactly ask him his name."
"Evan Weir," spoke up the young man for himself.
"He came home with me," said Deaves. "There was a little trouble."
The younger Deaves was horrified. "Another disgraceful street scene!"
he cried. Addressing Evan he said: "Please tell me exactly what
happened." He glanced nervously over his shoulder. "But not here.
Come up to my library."
He led the way up-stairs, across another and a loftier hall with an
imitation groined ceiling, and into a large room at the back of the
house, which by virtue of a case of morocco bound books, clearly not
often disturbed, was the library. The young man flung himself into a
chair behind an immense flat-topped desk and waved his hand to Evan
with an air that seemed to say: "Now tell me the worst!" Between the
two, Evan's sympathies were with the father.
He was not invited to sit. He told his story briefly, making out the
best case that he could for the old man. The latter was not insensible
to the favour. His little eyes twinkled. The young man became
gloomier and gloomier as the story progressed.
"We shall hear more of this!" he said tragically.
The old man pished and pshawed. "I offered him a steady job," he said,
"to go round with me. But his notions are too grand."
"Why, that would be a very suitable arrangement," his son said
pompously. "How much do you want?" he asked of Evan.
"Fifty dollars a week."
"That's ridiculous!" young Deaves said loftily. "I'll give you
twenty-five."
The scene of down-stairs was continued, with this difference that the
son was not so naive as the father. Evan kept up his end with firmness
and good-humour. After all there was some fun in contending with such
passionate bargainers, and he saw that for some reason the son was more
anxious to get hold of him than the father. They finally compromised
on forty dollars a week, provided Evan's references were satisfactory.
Simeon Deaves was scandalised.
"It's too much! too much!" he repeated. "It will turn his head
completely!"