the candle from time to time to peer into the opening, then resuming his work and muttering meanwhile.
“What’s this?” he soliloquizes, lifting a huge bundle and scrutinizing it carefully. “Ah-h! a gentleman’s fine overcoat; that must have a nice, safe corner. Ah-h! there you go,” lowering the bundle down the aperture and poking it into position with his stick. “It’s amazin’ what valuables my people finds about the streets,” he chuckles facetiously. “‘Ere’s a – a little silver tea-pot; some rich woman must a-throwed that out. I will put it on the shelf.”
Evidently the shelf mentioned is in the cellar below, for this parcel, like the first, is lowered and carefully placed by means of the stick. Other bundles of various sizes follow, and then the old man rests from his labor.
“What a nice little hole that is,” he mutters. “Full of rags – nothin’ else. Suppose a cop comes in here and looks down, what ’ud he see? Just rags. S’pose he went down, ha! ha! he’d go waist-deep in a bed of old rags, and he wouldn’t like the smell overmuch; such a nice smell – for cops. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t feel anything but rags, just rags.”
A low tap at the street-door causes the old man to drop his stick and his soliloquy at once. He starts nervously, listens intently for a moment, and then rises cautiously. A long, low whistle evidently reassures him, for with suddenly acquired self-possession he begins to move about.
Swiftly and noiselessly he closes the trap, spreads down the bit of carpet, and replaces the table. Then he shuffles toward the entrance, pulls out the pin from the hole in the door, and peeps out. Nothing is visible but the darkness, and this, somehow; seems to reassure him, for with a snort of impatience he calls out:
“Who knocks?”
“It’s Siebel,” replies a voice from without. “Open up, old Top.”
Instantly the door is unbarred and swung open, admitting a burly ruffian, who fairly staggers under the weight of a monstrous sack which he carries upon his shoulders.
At sight of this bulky burden the old man smiles and rubs his palms together.
“Ah! Josef,” he says, reaching out to relieve the new-comer, “a nice load that; a very nice load!”
But the man addressed as Josef retains his hold upon his burden, and, resting himself against it, looks distrustfully at his host.
“It’s been a fine evening, Josef,” insinuates the old man, his eyes still fixed upon the bag.
“Fair enough,” replies Josef gruffly, as he unties the bag and pushes it toward the old man. “Take a look at the stuff, Papa Francoise, and make a bid. I’m dead thirsty.”
Eagerly seizing the bag, Papa Francoise drags it toward the table, closely followed by Josef, and begins a hasty examination of its contents, saying:
“Rags is rags, you know, Josef Siebel. It’s not much use to look into ’em; there’s nothing here but rags, of course.”
“No, course not,” with a satirical laugh.
“That’s right, Josef; I won’t buy nothing but rags, —never. I don’t want no ill-gotten gains brought to me.”
Josef Siebel utters another short, derisive laugh, and discreetly turns his gaze toward the smoky ceiling while Papa begins his investigations. From out the capacious bag he draws a rich shawl, hurriedly examines it, and thrusts it back again.
“The rag-picker can be an honest man as well as another, Josef,” continues this virtuous old gentleman, drawing forth a silver soup-ladle and thrusting it back. “These are very good rags, Josef,” and he draws out a switch of blonde hair, and gazes upon it admiringly. Then he brings out a handful of rags, examines them ostentatiously by the light of the candle, smells them, and ties up the bag, seeing which Josef withdraws his eyes from the cobwebs overhead and fixes them on the black bottle upon the shelf.
Noting the direction of his gaze, Papa Francoise rests the bag against the table-leg, trots to the shelf, pours a scanty measure from the black bottle into a tin cup, and presents it to Josef with what is meant for an air of gracious hospitality.
“You spoke of thirst, Josef; drink, my friend.”
“Umph,” mutters the fellow, draining off the liquor at a draught. Then setting the cup hastily down; “Now, old Top, wot’s your bid?”
“Well,” replies Papa Francoise, trying to look as if he had not already settled that question with his own mind; “well, Josef I’ll give you – I’ll give you a dollar and a half.”
“The dickens you will!”
Josef makes a stride toward the bag, and lifts it upon his shoulder.
“Stop, Josef!” cries Papa, laying eager hands upon the treasure. “What do you want? That’s a good price for rags.”
“Bah!” snarls the burly ruffian, turning toward the door, “wot d’ye take me for, ye blasted old fence?”
But Papa has a firm clutch upon the bag.
“Stop, Josef!” he cries eagerly; “let me see,” pulling it down from his shoulder and lifting it carefully. “Why, it’s heavier than I thought. Josef, I’ll give you two dollars and a half, —no more.”
The “no more” is sharply uttered, and evidently Siebel comprehends the meaning behind the words, for he reseats himself sullenly, muttering:
“It ain’t enough, ye cursed cantin’ old skinflint, but fork it out; I’ve got to have money.”
At this instant there comes a short, sharp, single knock upon the street-door, and Papa hastens to open it, admitting a squalid, blear-eyed girl, or woman, who enters with reluctant step, and sullen demeanor.
“Oh, it’s you, Nance,” says Papa, going back to the table and beginning to count out some money, eyeing the girl keenly meanwhile. “One dollar, – sit down, Nance, – two dollars, fifty; there! Now, Nance,” turning sharply toward the girl, “what have you got, eh?”
“Nothin’,” replies Nance sullenly; “nothin’ that will suit you. I ain’t had no luck.”
“Nobody left nothin’ lyin’ round loose, I s’pose,” says Siebel with a coarse laugh, as he pockets the price of his day’s labor. “Wal, ye’ve come ter a poor place for sympathy, gal.” And he rises slowly and shuffles toward the door.
But Papa makes a gesture to stay him.
“Hold on, Josef!” he cries; “wait Nance!”
He seizes the bag, hurries it away into an inner room, and returns panting for breath. Drawing a stool toward the table, he perches himself thereon and leers across at the two sneak thieves.
“So ye ain’t had any luck, girl?” he says, in a wheedling tone, “and Josef, here, wants money. Do ye want more than ye’ve got Josef?”
“Ha ha! Do I?” And Josef slaps his pockets suggestively.
“Now listen, both of you. Suppose, I could help you two to earn some money easy and honest, what then?”
“Easy and honest!”
