The Four Million
“But if we had, Jawn, think what sorrow would be in our hearts this
night, with our little Phelan run away and stolen in the city nowheres
at all.”
“Ye talk foolishness,” said Mr. McCaskey. “’Tis Pat he would be named,
after me old father in Cantrim.”
“Ye lie!” said Mrs. McCaskey, without anger. “Me brother was worth tin
dozen bog-trotting McCaskeys. After him would the bye be named.” She
leaned over the window-sill and looked down at the hurrying and bustle
below.
“Jawn,” said Mrs. McCaskey, softly, “I’m sorry I was hasty wid ye.”
“’Twas hasty puddin’, as ye say,” said her husband, “and hurry-up
turnips and get-a-move-on-ye coffee. ’Twas what ye could call a quick
lunch, all right, and tell no lie.”
Mrs. McCaskey slipped her arm inside her husband’s and took his rough
hand in hers.
“Listen at the cryin’ of poor Mrs. Murphy,” she said. “’Tis an awful
thing for a bit of a bye to be lost in this great big city. If ’twas
our little Phelan, Jawn, I’d be breakin’ me heart.”
Awkwardly Mr. McCaskey withdrew his hand. But he laid it around the
nearing shoulder of his wife.
“’Tis foolishness, of course,” said he, roughly, “but I’d be cut up
some meself if our little Pat was kidnapped or anything. But there
never was any childer for us. Sometimes I’ve been ugly and hard with
ye, Judy. Forget it.”
They leaned together, and looked down at the heart-drama being acted
below.
Long they sat thus. People surged along the sidewalk, crowding,
questioning, filling the air with rumours, and inconsequent surmises.
Mrs. Murphy ploughed back and forth in their midst, like a soft
mountain down which plunged an audible cataract of tears. Couriers came
and went.
Loud voices and a renewed uproar were raised in front of the
boarding-house.
“What’s up now, Judy?” asked Mr. McCaskey.
“’Tis Missis Murphy’s voice,” said Mrs. McCaskey, harking. “She says
she’s after finding little Mike asleep behind the roll of old linoleum
under the bed in her room.”
Mr. McCaskey laughed loudly.
“That’s yer Phelan,” he shouted, sardonically. “Divil a bit would a Pat
have done that trick. If the bye we never had is strayed and stole, by
the powers, call him Phelan, and see him hide out under the bed like a
mangy pup.”
Mrs. McCaskey arose heavily, and went toward the dish closet, with the
corners of her mouth drawn down.
Policeman Cleary came back around the corner as the crowd dispersed.
Surprised, he upturned an ear toward the McCaskey apartment, where the
crash of irons and chinaware and the ring of hurled kitchen utensils
seemed as loud as before. Policeman Cleary took out his timepiece.
“By the deported snakes!” he exclaimed, “Jawn McCaskey and his lady
have been fightin’ for an hour and a quarter by the watch. The missis
could give him forty pounds weight. Strength to his arm.”
Policeman Cleary strolled back around the corner.
Old man Denny folded his paper and hurried up the steps just as Mrs.
Murphy was about to lock the door for the night.
THE SKYLIGHT ROOM
First Mrs. Parker would show you the double parlours. You would not
dare to interrupt her description of their advantages and of the merits
of the gentleman who had occupied them for eight years. Then you would
manage to stammer forth the confession that you were neither a doctor
nor a dentist. Mrs. Parker’s manner of receiving the admission was such
that you could never afterward entertain the same feeling toward your
parents, who had neglected to train you up in one of the professions
that fitted Mrs. Parker’s parlours.
Next you ascended one flight of stairs and looked at the
second-floor-back at $8. Convinced by her second-floor manner that it
was worth the $12 that Mr. Toosenberry always paid for it until he left
to take charge of his brother’s orange plantation in Florida near Palm
Beach, where Mrs. McIntyre always spent the winters that had the double
front room with private bath, you managed to babble that you wanted
something still cheaper.
If you survived Mrs. Parker’s scorn, you were taken to look at Mr.
Skidder’s large hall room on the third floor. Mr. Skidder’s room was
not vacant. He wrote plays and smoked cigarettes in it all day long.
But every room-hunter was made to visit his room to admire the
lambrequins. After each visit, Mr. Skidder, from the fright caused by
possible eviction, would pay something on his rent.
Then—oh, then—if you still stood on one foot, with your hot hand
clutching the three moist dollars in your pocket, and hoarsely
proclaimed your hideous and culpable poverty, nevermore would Mrs.
Parker be cicerone of yours. She would honk loudly the word “Clara,”
she would show you her back, and march downstairs. Then Clara, the
coloured maid, would escort you up the carpeted ladder that served for
the fourth flight, and show you the Skylight Room. It occupied 7×8 feet
of floor space at the middle of the hall. On each side of it was a dark
lumber closet or storeroom.
In it was an iron cot, a washstand and a chair. A shelf was the
dresser. Its four bare walls seemed to close in upon you like the sides
of a coffin. Your hand crept to your throat, you gasped, you looked up
as from a well—and breathed once more. Through the glass of the little
skylight you saw a square of blue infinity.
“Two dollars, suh,” Clara would say in her half-contemptuous,
half-Tuskegeenial tones.
One day Miss Leeson came hunting for a room. She carried a typewriter
made to be lugged around by a much larger lady. She was a very little
girl, with eyes and hair that had kept on growing after she had stopped
and that always looked as if they were saying: “Goodness me! Why didn’t
you keep up with us?”
Mrs. Parker showed her the double parlours. “In this closet,” she said,
“one could keep a skeleton or anaesthetic or coal—”
“But I am neither a doctor nor a dentist,” said Miss Leeson, with a
shiver.
Mrs. Parker gave her the incredulous, pitying, sneering, icy stare that
she kept for those who failed to qualify as doctors or dentists, and
led the way to the second floor back.
“Eight dollars?” said Miss Leeson. “Dear me! I’m not Hetty if I do look
green. I’m just a poor little working girl. Show me something higher
and lower.”
Mr. Skidder jumped and strewed the floor with cigarette stubs at the
rap on his door.
“Excuse me, Mr. Skidder,” said Mrs. Parker, with her demon’s smile at
his pale looks. “I didn’t know you were in. I asked the lady to have a
look at your lambrequins.”
“They’re too lovely for anything,” said Miss Leeson, smiling in exactly
the way the angels do.
After they had gone Mr. Skidder got very busy erasing the tall,
black-haired heroine from his latest (unproduced) play and inserting a
small, roguish one with heavy, bright hair and vivacious features.
“Anna Held’ll jump at it,” said Mr. Skidder to himself, putting his
feet up against the lambrequins and disappearing in a cloud of smoke
like an aerial cuttlefish.
Presently the tocsin call of “Clara!” sounded to the world the state of
Miss Leeson’s purse. A dark goblin seized her, mounted a Stygian
stairway, thrust her into a vault with a glimmer of light in its top
and muttered the menacing and cabalistic words “Two dollars!”
“I’ll take it!” sighed Miss Leeson, sinking down upon the squeaky iron
bed.
Every day Miss Leeson went out to work. At night she brought home
papers with handwriting on them and made copies with her typewriter.
Sometimes she had no work at night, and then she would sit on the steps
of the high stoop with the other roomers. Miss Leeson was not intended
for a sky-light room when the plans were drawn for her creation. She
was gay-hearted and full of tender, whimsical fancies. Once she let Mr.
Skidder read to her three acts of his great (unpublished) comedy, “It’s
No Kid; or, The Heir of the Subway.”
There was rejoicing among the gentlemen roomers whenever Miss Leeson
had time to sit on the steps for an hour or two. But Miss Longnecker,
the tall blonde who taught in a public school and said, “Well, really!”
to everything you said, sat on the top step and sniffed. And Miss Dorn,
who shot at the moving ducks at Coney every Sunday and worked in a
department store, sat on the bottom step and sniffed. Miss Leeson sat
on the middle step and the men would quickly group around her.
Especially Mr. Skidder, who had cast her in his mind for the star part
in a private, romantic (unspoken) drama in real life. And especially
Mr. Hoover, who was forty-five, fat, flush and foolish. And especially
very young Mr. Evans, who set up a hollow cough to induce her to ask
him to leave off cigarettes. The men voted her “the funniest and
jolliest ever,” but the sniffs on the top step and the lower step were
implacable.
I pray you let the drama halt while Chorus stalks to the footlights and
drops an epicedian tear upon the fatness of Mr. Hoover. Tune the pipes
to the tragedy of tallow, the bane of bulk, the calamity of corpulence.
Tried out, Falstaff might have rendered more romance to the ton than
would have Romeo’s rickety ribs to the ounce. A lover may sigh, but he
must not puff. To the train of Momus are the fat men remanded. In vain
beats the faithfullest heart above a 52-inch belt. Avaunt, Hoover!
Hoover, forty-five, flush and foolish, might carry off Helen herself;
Hoover, forty-five, flush, foolish and fat is meat for perdition. There
was never a chance for you, Hoover.
As Mrs. Parker’s roomers sat thus one summer’s evening, Miss Leeson
looked up into the firmament and cried with her little gay laugh:
“Why, there’s Billy Jackson! I can see him from down here, too.”
All looked up—some at the windows of skyscrapers, some casting about
for an airship, Jackson-guided.
“It’s that star,” explained Miss Leeson, pointing with a tiny finger.
“Not the big one that twinkles—the steady blue one near it. I can see
it every night through my skylight. I named it Billy Jackson.”
“Well, really!” said Miss Longnecker. “I didn’t know you were an
astronomer, Miss Leeson.”
“Oh, yes,” said the small star gazer, “I know as much as any of them
about the style of sleeves they’re going to wear next fall in Mars.”
“Well, really!” said Miss Longnecker. “The star you refer to is Gamma,
of the constellation Cassiopeia. It is nearly of the second magnitude,
and its meridian passage is—”
“Oh,” said the very young Mr. Evans, “I think Billy Jackson is a much
better name for it.”
“Same here,” said Mr. Hoover, loudly breathing defiance to Miss
Longnecker. “I think Miss Leeson has just as much right to name stars
as any of those old astrologers had.”
“Well, really!” said Miss Longnecker.
“I wonder whether it’s a shooting star,” remarked Miss Dorn. “I hit
nine ducks and a rabbit out of ten in the gallery at Coney Sunday.”
“He doesn’t show up very well from down here,” said Miss Leeson. “You
ought to see him from my room. You know you can see stars even in the
daytime from the bottom of a well. At night my room is like the shaft
of a coal mine, and it makes Billy Jackson look like the big diamond
pin that Night fastens her kimono with.”
There came a time after that when Miss Leeson brought no formidable
papers home to copy. And when she went out in the morning, instead of
working, she went from office to office and let her heart melt away in
the drip of cold refusals transmitted through insolent office boys.
This went on.
There came an evening when she wearily climbed Mrs. Parker’s stoop at
the hour when she always returned from her dinner at the restaurant.
But she had had no dinner.
As she stepped into the hall Mr. Hoover met her and seized his chance.
He asked her to marry him, and his fatness hovered above her like an
avalanche. She dodged, and caught the balustrade. He tried for her