And then he thought of the housekeeper.
He ran from the haunted room downstairs and to a door that showed a crack of light. She came out to his knock. He smothered his excitement as best he could.
Will you tell me, madam, he besought her, who occupied the room I have before I came?
Yes, sir. I can tell you again. Twas Sprowls and Mooney, as I said. Miss Bretta Sprowls it was in the theatres, but Missis Mooney she was. My house is well known for respectability. The marriage certificate hung, framed, on a nail over
What kind of a lady was Miss Sprowls in looks, I mean?
Why, black-haired, sir, short, and stout, with a comical face. They left a week ago Tuesday.
And before they occupied it?
Why, there was a single gentleman connected with the draying business. He left owing me a week. Before him was Missis Crowder and her two children, that stayed four months; and back of them was old Mr. Doyle, whose sons paid for him. He kept the room six months. That goes back a year, sir, and further I do not remember.
He thanked her and crept back to his room. The room was dead. The essence that had vivified it was gone. The perfume of mignonette had departed. In its place was the old, stale odour of mouldy house furniture, of atmosphere in storage.
The ebbing of his hope drained his faith. He sat staring at the yellow, singing gaslight. Soon he walked to the bed and began to tear the sheets into strips. With the blade of his knife he drove them tightly into every crevice around windows and door. When all was snug and taut he turned out the light, turned the gas full on again and laid himself gratefully upon the bed.
It was Mrs. McCools night to go with the can for beer. So she fetched it and sat with Mrs. Purdy in one of those subterranean retreats where house-keepers foregather and the worm dieth seldom[224].
I rented out my third floor, back, this evening, said Mrs. Purdy, across a fine circle of foam. A young man took it. He went up to bed two hours ago.
Now, did ye, Mrs. Purdy, maam? said Mrs. McCool, with intense admiration. You do be a wonder for rentin rooms of that kind. And did ye tell him, then? she concluded in a husky whisper, laden with mystery.
Rooms, said Mrs. Purdy, in her furriest tones, are furnished for to rent. I did not tell him, Mrs. McCool.
Tis right ye are, maam; tis by renting rooms we kape alive. Ye have the rale sense for business, maam. There be many people will rayjict[225] the rentin of a room if they be tould a suicide has been after dyin in the bed of it.
As you say, we has our living to be making, remarked Mrs. Purdy.
Yis, maam; tis true. Tis just one wake ago this day I helped ye lay out the third floor, back. A pretty slip of a colleen she was to be killin herself wid the gas a swate little face she had, Mrs. Purdy, maam.
Shed a-been called handsome, as you say, said Mrs. Purdy, assenting but critical, but for that mole she had a-growin by her left eyebrow. Do fill up your glass again, Mrs. McCool.
The Brief Début of Tildy
If you do not know Bogles Chop House and Family Restaurant it is your loss. For if you are one of the fortunate ones who dine expensively you should be interested to know how the other half consumes provisions. And if you belong to the half to whom waiters checks are things of moment, you should know Bogles, for there you get your moneys worth in quantity, at least.
Bogles is situated in that highway of bourgeoisie, that boulevard of Brown-Jones-and-Robinson, Eighth Avenue. There are two rows of tables in the room, six in each row. On each table is a caster-stand, containing cruets of condiments and seasons. From the pepper cruet you may shake a cloud of something tasteless and melancholy, like volcanic dust. From the salt cruet you may expect nothing. Though a man should extract a sanguinary stream from the pallid turnip, yet will his prowess be balked when he comes to wrest salt from Bogles cruets. Also upon each table stands the counterfeit of that benign sauce made from the recipe of a nobleman in India.
At the cashiers desk sits Bogle, cold, sordid, slow, smouldering, and takes your money. Behind a mountain of toothpicks he makes your change, files your check, and ejects at you, like a toad, a word about the weather. Beyond a corroboration of his meteorological statement you would better not venture. You are not Bogles friend; you are a fed, transient customer, and you and he may not meet again until the blowing of Gabriels dinner horn[226]. So take your change and go to the devil if you like. There you have Bogles sentiments.
The needs of Bogles customers were supplied by two waitresses and a Voice. One of the waitresses was named Aileen. She was tall, beautiful, lively, gracious and learned in persiflage. Her other name? There was no more necessity for another name at Bogles than there was for finger-bowls.
The name of the other waitress was Tildy. Why do you suggest Matilda? Please listen this time Tildy Tildy. Tildy was dumpy, plain-faced, and too anxious to please to please. Repeat the last clause to yourself once or twice, and make the acquaintance of the duplicate infinite.