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.”