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!”