arranged that partly as a farewell banquet and partly to celebrate Galton's decision about the page, there was to be an oyster stew that night in Mr. Hutchinson's room, which was distinguished as a bed-sitting-room. Tembarom had diplomatically suggested it to Mr. Hutchinson. It was to be Tembarom's oyster supper, and somehow he managed to convey that it was only a proper and modest tribute to Mr. Hutchinson himself. First-class oyster stew and pale ale were not so bad when properly suggested, therefore Mr. Hutchinson consented. Jim Bowles and Julius Steinberger were to come in to share the feast, and Mrs. Bowse had promised to prepare.
It was not an inspiring day for Little Ann. New York had seemed a bewildering and far too noisy place for her when she had come to it directly from her grandmother's cottage in the English village, where she had spent her last three months before leaving England. The dark rooms of the five-storied boarding-house had seemed gloomy enough to her, and she had found it much more difficult to adjust herself to her surroundings than she could have been induced to admit to her father. At first his temper and the open contempt for American habits and institutions which he called “speaking his mind” had given her a great deal of careful steering through shoals to do. At the outset the boarders had resented him, and sometimes had snapped back their own views of England and courts. Violent and disparaging argument had occasionally been imminent, and Mrs. Bowse had worn an ominous look. Their rooms had in fact been “wanted” before their first week had come to an end, and Little Ann herself scarcely knew how she had tided over that situation. But tide it over she did, and by supernatural effort and watchfulness she contrived to soothe Mrs. Bowse until she had been in the house long enough to make friends with people and aid her father to realize that, if they went elsewhere, they might find only the same class of boarders, and there would be the cost of moving to consider. She had beguiled an armchair from Mrs. Bowse, and had recovered it herself with a remnant of crimson stuff secured from a miscellaneous heap at a marked-down sale at a department store. She had arranged his books and papers adroitly and had kept them in their places so that he never felt himself obliged to search for any one of them. With many little contrivances she had given his bed-sitting-room a look of comfort and established homeliness, and he had even begun to like it.
“Tha't just like tha mother, Ann,” he had said. “She'd make a railway station look as if it had been lived in.”
Then Tembarom had appeared, heralded by Mrs. Bowse and the G. Destroyer, and the first time their eyes had met across the table she had liked him. The liking had increased. There was that in his boyish cheer and his not-too-well-fed-looking face which called forth maternal interest. As she gradually learned what his life had been, she felt a thrilled anxiety to hear day by day how he was getting on. She listened for details, and felt it necessary to gather herself together in the face of a slight depression when hopes of Galton were less high than usual. His mending was mysteriously done, and in time he knew with amazed gratitude that he was being “looked after.” His first thanks were so awkward, but so full of appreciation of unaccustomed luxury, that they almost brought tears to her eyes, since they so clearly illuminated the entire novelty of any attention whatever.
“I just don't know what to say,” he said, shuffling from one foot to another, though his nice grin was at its best. “I've never had a woman do anything for me since I was ten. I guess women do lots of things for most fellows; but, then, they're mothers and sisters and aunts. I appreciate it like—like thunder. I feel as if I was Rockefeller, Miss Ann.”
In a short time she had become “Little Ann” to him, as to the rest, and they began to know each other very well. Jim Bowles and Julius Steinberger had not been able to restrain themselves at first from making slangy, yearning love to her, but Tembarom had been different. He had kept himself well in hand. Yes, she had liked T. Tembarom, and as she packed the trunks she realized that the Atlantic Ocean was three thousand miles across, and when two people who had no money were separated by it, they were likely to remain so. Rich people could travel, poor people couldn't. You just stayed where things took you, and you mustn't be silly enough to expect things to happen in your class of life—things like seeing people again. Your life just went on. She kept herself very busy, and did not allow her thoughts any latitude. It would vex her father very much if he thought she had really grown fond of America and was rather sorry to go away. She had finished her packing before evening, and the trunks were labeled and set aside, some in the outside hall and some in the corner of the room. She had sat down with some mending on her lap, and Hutchinson was walking about the room with the restlessness of the traveler whose approaching journey will not let him settle himself anywhere.
“I'll lay a shilling you've got everything packed and ready, and put just where a chap can lay his hands on it,” he said.
“Yes, Father. Your tweed cap's in the big pocket of your thick topcoat, and there's an extra pair of spectacles and your pipe and tobacco in the small one.”
“And off we go back to England same as we came!” He rubbed his head, and drew a big, worried sigh. “Where's them going?” he asked, pointing to some newly laundered clothing on a side table. “You haven't forgotten 'em, have you?”
“No, Father. It's just some of the young men's washing. I thought I'd take time to mend them up a bit before I went to bed.”
“That's like tha mother, too—taking care of everybody. What did these chaps do before you came?”
“Sometimes they tried to sew on a button or so themselves, but oftener they went without. Men make poor work of sewing. It oughtn't to be expected of them.”
Hutchinson stopped and looked her and her mending over with a touch of curiosity.
“Some of them's Tembarom's?” he asked.
Little Ann held up a pair of socks.
“These are. He does wear them out, poor fellow. It's tramping up and down the streets to save car-fare does it. He's never got a heel to his name. But he's going to be able to buy some new ones next week.”
Hutchinson began his tramp again.
“He'll miss thee, Little Ann; but so'll the other lads, for that matter.”
“He'll know to-night whether Mr. Galton's going to let him keep his work. I do hope he will. I believe he'd begin to get on.”
“Well,”—Hutchinson was just a little grudging even at this comparatively lenient moment—“I believe the chap'll get on myself. He's got pluck and he's sharp. I never saw him make a poor mouth yet.”
“Neither did I,” answered Ann.
A door leading into Tembarom's hall bedroom opened on to Hutchinson's. They both heard some one inside the room knock at it. Hutchinson turned and listened, jerking his head toward the sound.
“There's that poor chap again,” he said. “He's wakened and got restless. What's Tembarom going to do with him, I'd like to know? The money won't last forever.”
“Shall I let him in, Father? I dare say he's got restless because Mr. Tembarom's not come in.”
“Aye, we'll let him in. He won't have thee long. He can't do no harm so long as I'm here.”
Little Ann went to the door and opened it. She spoke quietly.
“Do you want to come in here, Mr. Strangeways?”
The man came in. He was clean, but still unshaven, and his clothes looked as though he had been lying down. He looked round the room anxiously.
“Where has he gone?” he demanded in an overstrung voice.
