A Top-Floor Idyl Part 16

My two friends were wringing their hands as they dashed towards us, and upon their heads their hats were awry.

"Paul is all right!" I a.s.sured them. "But they took us for robbers."

Frances picked her infant out of the basket, hysterically. She had tried to follow me and had wrestled with a sinewy policeman, who had defeated her. We reached Mrs. Milliken's, where Paul was deposited on his mother's bed, soundly sleeping, and the basket, which it had taxed the good woman's strength and mine to carry upstairs, was placed on the floor. After this, Frieda threw her fat arms around my neck and called me a hero. Frances would have followed suit but, being forestalled, had to content herself with embracing the cleaning lady who, puffing, soon disengaged herself and fanned herself with a newspaper.

"The brigands," she declared, "will soak everything with water, but I have saved most of my customers' things."

She finally went off to spend the night at Eulalie's sister's, leaving the plunder in our care. On the next morning, when Frances went off to work, she found that the fire had invaded a part of the shop, that the plate-gla.s.s window was broken and chaos reigned. Felicie was there and deplored the fact that, until insurance matters were adjusted and repairs made, all business would have to be suspended.

The poor girl came home to throw herself on her knees beside little Paul. Then, she bethought herself of me and knocked at my door, hurriedly. I opened it. My face, unfortunately, was covered with lather.

"I--I'm out of work. It--it will be several weeks before Felicie can open the shop again. Oh! What shall I do?"

"My dear child," I said, "you will, for the time being, return to little Paul and let me finish sc.r.a.ping my face. You will also please remember that you have some good friends. As soon as I am shaved, we will hold a session and form ourselves into a Committee of Ways and Means. In the meanwhile remember about the little sparrow falling to the ground."

"I--I'm afraid a cat often gets him," she said sadly, and went back to her room.

CHAPTER XI

GORDON VACILLATES

It behooved me to waste no time and, as soon as I was ready, I briefly conferred with Frances, telling her that Gordon would probably be very glad to employ her for a short time that would tide over the interval before Felicie would be ready to resume business at the old stand. She looked at me, rather uncertainly, as if the suggestion were not altogether a pleasing one. At any rate a tiny wrinkle or two showed for an instant between her brows.

"Don't you think it is a good idea?" I asked her.

"I--I suppose it is," she answered slowly, and then, impulsively, put her hand on my arm.

"Of course it is, you dear good friend," she declared. "I am ready to go there as soon as he may want me. He--he has been so friendly, of late, bringing us candies and flowers, and chatting with us, that--that it will seem a little bit harder, but, of course, it will be just the same as before, and he will think of nothing but his painting."

"I will go and see him at once," I told her, "I may find that he is busy with a portrait and has no time for other work, but I might as well go and ascertain."

I was being shot up the elevator towards Gordon's studio when I suddenly remembered that letter at the consul's. I must confess that it had altogether escaped my memory. I consoled myself with the idea that my interview with Gordon would be brief, and that I should immediately return and tell Frances about it. Perhaps she would allow me to go downtown with her to obtain it. She must not go alone, of course, since she would open the thing there and then. I could imagine her in that office, among indifferent people, weeping and without a friend to take her arm and lead her out, with not a word of consolation and encouragement. Yes, I would go with her!

"Hey, Mister! Didn't you say the tenth floor?"

Thus did the elevator boy interrupt my cogitations; but for him I might have kept on going up and down a dozen times, so busily was I engaged in picturing to myself the emotions of Frances when she should receive that letter. I got out of the cage, hurriedly, and rang Gordon's bell, the j.a.p opening with a polite grin of recognition.

"Can I go into the studio?" I asked. "Is Mr. McGrath engaged?"

"No, sir, but I tell him."

The man went in, after taking my hat and coat, and Gordon rushed out to meet me.

"h.e.l.lo, Dave!" he greeted me. "When you rang the bell, I thought it was Lorimer--the Lorimer. He told me last night at the Van Rossums that he would drop in and see me."

"You are certainly making good headway among the millionaires," I told him.

"They're the fellows I'm gunning for," he answered quietly.

"Look here, Gordon," I began at once. "Frances Dupont is out of a job.

Fire in the shanty next door, and her employer has been flooded out. You were saying something about wis.h.i.+ng to--"

"Yes, I know I was," he replied, staring vaguely at the floor. "I--I'll have to think about it."

"I suppose you have some other pressing work on hand."

He made no answer, going up to the humidor on the mantel and selecting a cigar, which he lighted very deliberately.

"Have one?" he asked me.

"No, thanks," I declined. "I'll help myself to a cigarette. One of those perfectos so early in the morning would set my head whirling."

He looked at me, twirling his fine moustache, without appearing to see me, and began pacing up and down the wonderful silk rug on the floor, his cigar in his mouth and his hands deep in his trousers pockets.

"I'll tell you, Dave," he began, but was interrupted by another ring at the bell. A moment later Mr. Lorimer was admitted, a big man with a leonine head, strong and rather coa.r.s.e features and eyes like Toledo blades, who spoke slowly, weighing his words.

"Good morning, Mr. McGrath," he said. "I shall be obliged, if you will show me some of your work."

"I want to introduce my friend, David Cole," said Gordon; "he's a writer of charming novels."

"Always glad to meet any one who can do things, Mr. Cole," said the big man, putting out his hand. "What have you written?"

Gordon at once came to my rescue, mentioning two or three t.i.tles of my books.

"'The First Million'! You wrote that, did you? Read it on my way to Europe, three years ago. You're a clever man, Mr. Cole, but it was a mistake on your part to make a millionaire sympathetic and refined.

Didn't make much out of the book, did you?"

"It only sold about four thousand," I acknowledged.

"Thought so. That fellow Lorgan was neither fish, flesh, fowl or good red herring. In a novel, a very rich man should be made bearable by foolishly giving away huge sums of money, or else unbearable in order to show the contrast offered by the poor, but honest, hero. That's what the public wants, I should judge. As a simple human being a magnate is impossible in modern fiction."

"My friend Gordon works from the model and sticks to it," I ventured. "I have been silly enough to depend altogether on my imagination, Mr.

Lorimer, but I'm getting cured of that failing. In future I will cling to the people I have an opportunity of studying."

"You'll turn out something pretty good, one of these days," he said.

"And now for the paintings, Mr. McGrath. I have only a few minutes to spare."

He looked at a few portraits and a still-life or two, resting his square jaw in the palm of his hand.

"I've been a bit of a doubting Thomas," he suddenly said. "Had an idea that a chap who goes in so much for society couldn't do very serious work, but this is first rate. Good, honest stuff, I call it, but I doubt if you will keep it up. Let's have a look at something else."

He paid not the slightest attention to Gordon, who looked as mad as a hornet. The j.a.panese servant lifted up a picture that was turned with the face against the wall.

"Not that one," directed Gordon, but Lorimer had caught a glimpse of the canvas as the j.a.panese turned.