Chapter III

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 pa.s.sed 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 n.o.body 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 G.o.d 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 ca.s.sock 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 n.o.body 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 ill.u.s.tration. "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 bra.s.s 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 tr.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 cla.s.s, nor of any other cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s 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."

"p.a.w.ned 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 n.o.body 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."