“That for you!” he muttered. “That for you—” A grunt, and another savage lunge. “That for you, Maria Chidden, you domineerin’ despot!”
Thirty minutes had passed in this manner, and a considerable hole had begun to appear in the black pile, when Mr. Chidden suddenly paused in the act of inserting the shovel, to consult a dollar nickel-plated watch in his pocket. Then, with the expression of one who has suddenly remembered something not unpleasant, he threw down the shovel, turned out the gas jet, mounted the stairs to the kitchen, crossed to the sink, and began washing his hands.
“Now what’s the matter?” demanded Miss Chidden, entering from the dining room.
“I’ve got to go to the tailor for Mr. Stubbs’ suit,” replied Mr. Chidden calmly, feeling himself in a safe position.
“Humph!” grunted the lady. “It’s a pity he don’t go himself.”
“Couldn’t,” said Mr. Chidden. “Sartorial wretchedness. He ain’t got but one.”
This argument being incontrovertible, Miss Chidden returned to the dining room without further comment. Mr. Chidden scrubbed his hands and face, put on a collar and tie and coat, and sought the street. Half a block to the east, he turned into the door of a basement shop, above which was a blackboard with the legend in gilt:
“Morning,” said Mr. Chidden, entering.
Two persons were in the shop — a fair-haired little woman with laughing blue eyes and an air of cheery amiability, and a young man with black hair and a pale, tragic countenance, who was energetically pounding on a tailor’s goose with a heavy iron. The woman, laying aside a piece of cloth on which she was sewing, rose to greet the newcomer.
“Good morning, Mr. Chidden.”
The caller, suddenly remembering his manners, jerked off his hat before he spoke:
“Very fine, Mrs. Sturcke. Out for a little breath of air. By the way, you have a suit — belongs to one of the roomers—”
“You want Mr. Stubbs’ suit, yes? Leo, is the gray suit done?”
“In a minute,” replied the pale-faced young man, and began to pound with the iron harder than ever.
“I’ll wait,” said Mr. Chidden, leaning himself gracefully against the counter.
Mrs. Sturcke resumed her chair and took up her work. The pale-faced young man glanced twice at the pair, and each time the iron came down with a fearful thud.
“How’s business?” asked Mr. Chidden, with a professional air.
“Business is good,” replied Mrs. Sturcke, in a tone which implied that nothing else was.
“It appears so,” said Mr. Chidden, glancing knowingly at the row of coats and trousers hanging on the rail in the rear. “You’ve done admirable here, Mrs. Sturcke.”
“As well as could be expected,” agreed the lady.
“Yes, you have indeed. It’s really surprising. As I said to Maria when your husband died two years ago, ‘Women ain’t tailors. She’ll cavort.’ But you haven’t.”
“No, I aind’t.” Mrs. Sturcke smiled. “But, of course, Miss Chidden — your sister — knew better yet. Not but what it’s been hard. It’s hard, anyway, being a widow.”
Mr. Chidden shook his head sympathetically. “I know. Lonesome memories. Past illusions. I have ’em myself, though I must say I ain’t a widow.” Mr. Chidden sighed. “The fact is, I’ve never been married.”
Mrs. Sturcke had begun to smile at his little joke about not being a widow, but this last statement sobered her instantly.
“And that’s a pity,” she observed gravely. “It’s not right, Mr. Chidden.”
“Right!” exclaimed Mr. Chidden, with sudden energy. “Of course not! It’s a fault! I admit it; it’s a fault! But it’s not mine. It takes two to make a bargain, Mrs. Sturcke, and I’ve never found the coequal.”
“Some women is fools,” declared Mrs. Sturcke emphatically.
“Here’s the suit,” the pale-faced young man broke in, glancing from one to the other.
Mr. Chidden took the suit and placed it over his arm — with the trousers underneath so the suspenders wouldn’t show — and prepared to leave. Mrs. Sturcke helped him with the adjustment.
“Thanks,” said Mr. Chidden courteously. “Good morning, ma’am.”
There was a little, perplexed frown on Mr. Chidden’s brow as he turned down Twenty-third Street, a frown that alternated, now with a smile, now with a whistle. When he reached the steps of the rooming house, the smile was in the ascendant, but as he entered the door the frown returned.
“I wonder,” he said musingly to himself, “what the little widow meant by that about women being fools.”
Then back came the smile, indicating, perhaps, that he had answered the question to his complete satisfaction.
By twelve o’clock the coal was moved to the last shining lump, and Mr. Chidden went to the kitchen to wash up. Throughout that operation he whistled — there was no tune to it, but he whistled — and his sister Maria, hearing it, looked across at him suspiciously.
“Robert,” she exclaimed, “for goodness’ sake stop that noise!”
He returned her gaze with an air of the utmost cheerfulness, threw the towel on a nail, and wandered into the back court.
After lunch, which he ate in the kitchen with his sister and the cook to avoid messing up the dining room, Mr. Chidden prepared to go out. This hour, from one to two, was his to do with as he liked, and he usually took advantage of the opportunity to walk down to the river, where he would loiter around watching the ferryboat crowds and the wagons of merchandise. For years he had been on friendly terms with the cabbies of the neighborhood, but the advent of taxis had thinned their ranks, and most of the old faces were gone.
On this day Mr. Chidden somehow did not feel like walking to the river.
“Sentiment of unrest,” he muttered to himself, taking down an old brown slouch hat from a hook in the basement hall. He put the hat on his head, then suddenly snatched it off again, and stood gazing at it in quick fury. The next moment he started up the stairs with a firm and resolute step, down the hall and into the parlor, where his sister was removing the summer covers from the furniture.
“Well,” said Miss Chidden, without looking up, “what are you fooling around here for? Remember, you get back by two o’clock. There’s some rugs to beat.”
“Maria,” said Mr. Chidden calmly, “I want two dollars.”
At that she did look up.
“What for?” she demanded in amazement.
“For a new hat. Look at that!” said Mr. Chidden, holding up the old brown slouch. “It’s a disgrace. And, what’s more, it don’t fit, and it knows it. It’s even ashamed of itself.”
“That’s all right,” replied the lady accusingly, “but you bought it new last year.”
But Mr. Chidden was in no mood for argument. He threw the hat on the floor with a gesture of scorn, and put his foot on it.
“Maria,” he said coldly, “I asked you for two dollars.”
“And I said,” retorted his sister, “or at least I say, which is the same thing, that you shan’t have it. Don’t try to bully me, Robert Chidden. I won’t stand it. Don’t abuse your own sister. You can either wear that hat or go without. Pick it up!”
“Maria—”
“Robert!”