Felix O\'Day

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Etext produced by Duncan Harrod

Felix O'Day

By
F. Hopkinson Smith

Felix O'Day

Chapter I

Broadway on dry nights, or rather that part known
as the Great White Way, is a crowded thoroughfare,
dominated by lofty buildings, the sky-line studded
with constellations of colored signs pencilled in fire.
Broadway on wet, rain-drenched nights is the fairy
concourse of the Wonder City of the World, its asphalt
splashed with liquid jewels afloat in molten gold.

Across this flood of frenzied brilliance surge hurrying
mobs, dodging the ceaseless traffic, trampling
underfoot the wealth of the Indies, striding through
pools of quicksilver, leaping gutters filled to the brim
with melted rubies--horse, car, and man so many
black silhouettes against a tremulous sea of light.

Along this blinding whirl blaze the playhouses, their
wide portals aflame with crackling globes, toward which
swarm bevies of pleasure-seeking moths, their eyes
dazzled by the glare. Some with heads and throats
bare dart from costly broughams, the mountings of
their sleek, rain-varnished horses glittering in the flash
of the electric lamps. Others spring from out street
cabs. Many come by twos and threes, their skirts
held high. Still others form a line, its head lost in a
small side door. These are in drab and brown, with
worsted shawls tightly drawn across thin shoulders.
Here, too, wedged in between shabby men, the collars
of their coats muffling their chins, their backs to the
grim policeman, stand keen-eyed newsboys and ragged
street urchins, the price of a gallery seat in their tightly
closed fists.

Soon the swash and flow of light flooding the street
and sidewalks shines the clearer. Fewer dots and
lumps of man, cab, and cart now cross its surface.
The crowd has begun to thin out. The doors of the
theatres are deserted; some flaunt signs of "Standing
Room Only." The cars still follow their routes,
lunging and pausing like huge beetles; but much of
the wheel traffic has melted, with only here and there
a cab or truck between which gold-splashed umbrellas
pick a hazardous way.

With the breaking of the silent dawn, shadowed in
a lonely archway or on an abandoned doorstep the
wet, bedraggled body of a hapless moth is sometimes
found, her iridescent wings flattened in the mud.
Then for a brief moment a cry of protest, or scorn,
or pity goes up. The passers-by raise their hands in
anger, draw their skirts aside in horror, or kneel in
tenderness. It is the same the world over, and New
York is no better and, for that matter, no worse.

On one of these rain-drenched nights, some ten
years or more ago, when the streets were flooded with
jewels, and the sky-line aflame, a man in a slouch
hat, a wet mackintosh clinging to his broad shoulders,
stood close to the entrance of one of the principal
playhouses along this Great White Way. He
had kept his place since the doors were opened, his
hat-brim, pulled over his brow, his keen eye searching
every face that passed. To all appearances he was
but an idle looker-on, attracted by the beauty of
the women, and yet during all that time he had not
moved, nor had he been in the way, nor had he been
observed even by the door man, the flap of the awning
casting its shadow about him. Only once had he
strained forward, gazing intently, then again relaxed,
settling into his old position.

Not until the last couple had hurried by, breathless
at being late, did he refasten the top button of his
mackintosh, move clear of the nook which had sheltered
him, and step out into the open.

For an instant he glanced about him, seemed to
hesitate, as does a bit of driftwood blocked in the
current; then, with a sudden straightening of his
shoulders, he wheeled and threaded his way down-town.

At Herald Square, he mounted with an aimless air
a flight of low steps, peered though the windows, and
listened to the crunch of the presses chewing the cud
of the day's news. When others crowded close he
stepped back to the sidewalk, raising his hat once in
apology to an elderly dame who, with head down, had
brushed him with her umbrella.

By the time he reached 30th Street his steps had become
slower. Again he hesitated, and again with an
aimless air turned to the left, the rain still pelting his
broad shoulders, his hat pulled closer to protect his
face. No lights or color pursued him here. The fronts
of the houses were shrouded in gloom; only a hall
lantern now and then and the flare of the lamps at
the crossings, he alone and buffeting the storm--all
others behind closed doors. When Fourth Avenue
was reached he lifted his head for the first time. A
lighted window had attracted his attention--a wide,
corner window filled with battered furniture, ill-
assorted china, and dented brass--one of those popular
morgues that house the remains of decayed respectability.

Pausing automatically, he glanced carelessly at the
contents, and was about to resume his way when he
caught sight of a small card propped against a broken
pitcher. "Choice Articles Bought and Sold--Advances
Made."

Suddenly he stopped. Something seemed to interest
him. To make sure that he had read the card aright,
he bent closer. Evidently satisfied by his scrutiny, he
drew himself erect and moved toward the shop door
as if to enter. Through the glass he saw a man in
shirt-sleeves, packing. The sight of the man brought
another change of mind, for he stepped back and raised
his head to a big sign over the front. His face now came
into view, with its well-modelled nose and square chin--
the features of a gentleman of both refinement and intelligence.
A man of forty--perhaps of forty-five--
clean-shaven, a touch of gray about his temples, his
eyes shadowed by heavy brows from beneath which
now and then came a flash as brief and brilliant as an
electric spark. He might have been a civil engineer,
or some scientist, or yet an officer on half pay.

"Otto Kling, 445 Fourth Avenue," he repeated to
himself, to make sure of the name and location. Then,
with the quick movement of a man suddenly imbued
with new purpose, he wheeled, leaped the overflowed
gutter, and walked rapidly until he reached 13th Street.
Half-way down the block he entered the shabby doorway
of an old-fashioned house, mounted to the third
floor, stepped into a small, poorly furnished bedroom
lighted by a single gas-jet, and closed the door behind
him. Lifting his wet hat from his well-rounded head,
with its smoothly brushed, closely trimmed hair--a
head that would have looked well in bronze--he raised
the edge of the bedclothes and from underneath the
narrow cot dragged out a flat, sole-leather trunk of
English make. This he unlocked with a key fastened
to a steel chain, took out the tray, felt about among
the contents, and drew out a morocco-covered dressing-
case, of good size and of evident value, bearing on its
top a silver plate inscribed with a monogram and crest.
The trunk was then relocked and shoved under the bed.

At this moment a knock startled him.

"Come in," he called, covering the case with a corner
of the cotton quilt.

A bareheaded, coarse-featured woman with a black
shawl about her shoulders stood in the doorway. "I've
come for my money," she burst out, too angry for
preliminaries. "I'm gittin' tired of bein' put off.
You're two weeks behind."

"Only two weeks? I was afraid it was worse, my
dear madame," he answered calmly, a faint smile curling
his thin lips. "You have a better head for figures
than I. But do not concern yourself. I will pay you
in the morning."

"I've heard that before, and I'm gittin' sick of it.
You'd 'a' been out of here last week if my husband
hadn't been laid up with a lame foot."

"I am sorry to hear about the foot. That must be
even worse than my being behind with your rent."

"Well, it's bad enough with all I got to put up with.
Of course I don't want to be ugly," she went on, her
fierceness dying out as she noticed his unruffled calm,
"but these rooms is about all we've got, and we can't
afford to take no chances."

"Did you suppose I would let you?"

"Let me what?"

"Let you take chances. When I become convinced
that I cannot pay you what I owe you, I will give you
notice in advance. I should be much more unhappy
over owing you such a debt than you could possibly
be in not getting your money."

The answer, so unlike those to which she had been
accustomed from other delinquents, suddenly rekindled
her anger. "Will some of them friends of yours that
never show up bring you the money?" she snapped
back.

"Have you met any of them on the stairs?" he
inquired blandly.

"No, nor nowhere else. You been here now goin'
on three months, and there ain't come a letter, nor
nothin' by express, and no man, woman, or child has
asked for you. Kinder queer, don't you think?"

"Yes, I do think so; and I can hardly blame you.
It IS suspicious--VERY suspicious--alarmingly so," he
rejoined with an indulgent smile. Then growing grave
again: "That will do, madame. I will send for you
when I am ready. Do not lose any sleep and do not
let your husband lose any. I will shut the door
myself."

When the clatter of her rough shoes had ceased to
echo on the stairs he drew the dressing-case from its
hiding-place, tucked it inside his mackintosh, turned
down the gas-jet, locked the door of the room, retracing
his steps until he stood once more in front of Kling's
sign. This time he went in.

"I am glad you are still open," he began, shaking the
wet from his coat. "I hoped you would be. You are
Mr. Kling, are you not?"

"Yes, dot is my name. Vot can I do for you?"

"I passed by your window a short time ago, and saw
your card, stating that advances were made on choice
articles. Would this be of any use to you?" He
took the dressing-case from under his coat and handed
it to Kling. "I am not ready to sell it--not to sell it
outright; you might, perhaps, make me a small loan
which would answer my purpose. Its value is about
sixty pounds--some three hundred dollars of your
money. At least, it cost that. It is one of Vickery's,
of London, and it is almost new."

Kling glanced sharply at the intruder. "I don't
keep open often so late like dis. You must come in
de morning."

"Cannot you look at it now?"

Something in the stranger's manner appealed to the
dealer. He lowered his chin, adjusted his spectacles,
and peered over their round silver rims--a way with
him when he was making up his mind.

"Vell, I don't mind. Let me see," and opening the
case he took out the silver-topped bottles, placing them
in a row on the counter behind which he stood. "Yes,
dot's a good vun," he continued with a grunt of approval.
"Yes--dot's London, sure enough. Yes, I
see Vickery's name--whose initials is on dese bottles?
And de arms--de lion and de vings on him--dot
come from somebody high up, ain't it? Vhere did you
get 'em?"

"That is of no moment. What I want to know is,
will you either pay me a fair price for it or loan me a
fair sum on it?"

"Is it yours to sell?"

"It is." There was no trace of resentment in his
voice, nor did he show the slightest irritation at being
asked so pointed a question.

"Vell, I don't keep a pawn-shop. I got no license,
and if I had I vouldn't do it--too much trouble all de
time. Poor vomans, dead-beats, suckers, sneak-thieves
--all kind of peoples you don't vant, to come in the
door vhen you have a pawn-shop."

"Your sign said advances made."

"Vich vun?"

"The one in the window, or I would not have
troubled you."

"Vell, dot means anyting you please. Sometimes I
get olt granfadder vatches dot vay, and olt Sheffield
plate and tings vich olt families sell vhen everybody
is gone dead. Vy do you vant to give dis away? I
vouldn't, if I vas you. You don't look like a man
vot is broke. I vill put back de bottles. You take
it home agin."

"I would if I had any home to take it to. I am a
stranger here and am two weeks behind in the rent of
my room."

"Is dot so? Vell, dot is too bad. Two weeks behint
and no home but a room! I vouldn't think dot to look
at you."

"I would not either if I had the courage to look at
myself in the glass. Then you cannot help me?"

"I don't say dot I can't. Somebody may come in.
I have lots of tings belong to peoples, and ven other
peoples come in, sometimes dey buy, and sometimes dey
don't. Sometimes only one day goes by, and sometimes
a whole year. You leave it vid me. I take care of it.
Den I get my little Masie--dat little girl of mine vot I
call Beesvings--to polish up all de bottles and make
everyting look like new."

"Then I will come in the morning?"

"Yes, but give me your name--someting might happen
yet, and your address. Here, write it on dis card."

"No, that is unnecessary. I will take your word
for it."

"But vere can I find you?"

"I will find myself, thank you," and he strode
out into the rain.

Chapter II

In the days when Otto Kling's shop-windows attracted
collectors in search of curios and battered furniture,
"The Avenue," as its denizens always called
Fourth Avenue between Madison Square Garden and
the tunnel, was a little city in itself.

Almost all the needs of a greater one could be supplied
by the stores fronting its sidewalks. If tea, coffee,
sugar, and similar stimulating and soothing groceries
were wanted, old Bundleton, on the corner above
Kling's, in a white apron and paper cuffs, weighed them
out. If it were butter or eggs, milk, cream, or curds,
the Long Island Dairy--which was really old man
Heffern, his daughter Mary, and his boy Tom--had
them in a paper bag, or on your plate, or into your
pitcher before you could count your change. If it were
a sirloin, or lamb-chops, or Philadelphia chickens, or a
Cincinnati ham, fat Porterfield, watched over from her
desk by fat Mrs. Porterfield, dumped them on a pair
of glittering brass scales and sent them home to your
kitchen invitingly laid out in a flat wicker basket. If
it were fish--fresh, salt, smoked, or otherwise--to say
nothing of crabs, oysters, clams, and the exclusive and
expensive lobster--it was Codman, a few doors above
Porterfield's, who had them on ice, or in barrels, the
varnished claws of the lobsters thrust out like the hands
of a drowning man.

Were it a question of drugs, there was Pestler, the
apothecary, with his four big green globes illuminated
by four big gas-jets, the joy of the children. A small
fellow this Pestler, with a round head and up-brushed
hair set on a long, thin stem of a neck, the whole growing
out of a pair of narrow shoulders, quite like a tulip
from a glass jar.

And then there were Jarvis, the spectacle man, and
that canny Scotchman Sanderson, the florist, who knew
the difference between roses a week old and roses a
day old, and who had the rare gift of so mixing the two
vintages that hardly enough dead stock was left over
for funerals including those presided over by his fellow
conspirator Digwell, the undertaker, who lived
over his mausoleum of a back room.

And, of course, there were the bakeshop emitting
enticing smells, mostly of currants and burnt sugar,
and the hardware store, full of nails and pocket-knives,
and old Mr. Jacobs, the tailor, who sat cross-legged
on a wide table in a room down four stone steps from
the sidewalk, and the grog-shops--more's the pity--
one on every corner save Kling's.

Hardly a trace is now left of any one of them, so
sudden and overwhelming has been the march of
modern progress. Even the little Peter Cooper House,
picked up bodily by that worthy philanthropist and
set down here nearly a hundred years ago, is gone,
and so are the row of musty, red-bricked houses at the
lower end of this Little City in Itself. And so are
the tenants of this musty old row, shady locksmiths
with a tendency toward skeleton keys; ingenious
upholsterers who indulged in paper-hanging on the sly;
shoemakers who did half-soling and heeling, their
day's work set to dry on the window-sill, not to mention
those addicted to the use of the piano, banjo,
or harp, as well as the wig and dress makers who
lightened the general gloom.

And with the disappearance of these old landmarks--
and it all took place within less than ten years--there
disappeared, also, the old family life of "The Avenue,"
in which each home shared in the good-fellowship of
the whole, all of them contributing to that sane and
sustaining stratum, if we did but know it, of our civic
structure--facts that but few New Yorkers either recognize
or value.

On the block below Kling's in those other days
was the quaint Book Shop owned by Tim Kelsey, the
hunchback, a walking encyclopaedia of knowledge,
much of it as musty and out of date as most of his
books; while overtopping all else in importance, so far
as this story is concerned, was the shabby, old-fashioned
two-story house known the town over as the
Express Office of John and Kitty Cleary, sporting above
its narrow street-door a swinging sign informing inquirers
that trunks were carried for twenty-five cents.

And not only trunks, but all of the movable furniture
up and down the avenue, and most of that from the
adjacent regions, found their way in and out of the
Cleary wagons. Indeed Otto Kling's confidence in
Kitty--and Kitty was really the head of the concern
--was so great that he always refused to allow any of
her rivals to carry his purchases and sales, even at a
reduced price, a temptation seldom resisted by the
economical Dutchman.

Nor did the friendly relations end here. Not only
did Kitty's man Mike hammer up at night the rusty
iron shutters protecting Kling's side window, clean
away the snow before his store, and lend a hand in the
moving of extra-heavy pieces, but he was even known
to wash the windows and kindle a fire.

That Mike had delayed or entirely forgotten to
hammer up these same iron shutters when the stranger
brought in the dressing-case accounted for the fact of
Otto Kling's shop having been kept open until so late.
It also accounted for the fact that when the same
stranger appeared early the next morning (Mike was
tending the store) and made his way to where the Irishman
sat he found him conning the head-lines of the
morning paper. That worthy man-of-all-work, never
having laid eyes on him before, at once made a mental
note of the intruder's well-cut English clothes, heavy
walking-shoes, and short brier-wood pipe, and, concluding
therefrom that he was a person of importance,
stretched out his hand toward the bell-rope in connection
with the breakfast-room above, at the same time
saying with great urbanity: "Take a chair, or, if yer
cold, come up near the stove. Mr. Kling will be down
in a minute. He's up-stairs eatin' his breakfast with his
little girl. I'm not his man or I'd wait on ye meself.
A little fresh, ain't it, after the wet night we had?"

"I left a dressing-case here last night," ventured the
intruder.

Mike's chin went out with a quick movement, his
face expressive of supreme disgust at his mistake.
"Oh, is it that? Somethin' ye had to sell? Well, then,
maybe you'd better call durin' the day."

"No, I will wait--you need not ring. I have nothing
else to do, and Mr. Kling may have a great deal.
I take it you are from the north of Ireland, either
Londonderry or near there. Am I right?"

"I'm from Lifford, within reach of it. How the divil
did ye know?"

"I can tell from your brogue. How long have you
been in this country?"

"About five years--going on six now. How long
have you been here?"

"How long? Well--" Here he bent over the table
against which he had been leaning, selected a cup from
a group of china, turned it upside down in search of
the mark, and then, as if he had momentarily forgotten
himself, answered slowly: "Oh, not long--a few
months or so. You do not object to my looking these
over?" he asked, this time reversing a plate and subjecting
it to the same scrutiny.

"No, so ye don't let go of 'em. Fellow come in here
last week and broke a teapot foolin' wid it."

The visitor, without replying, continued his cool
examination of the collection, consisting of articles of
different makes and colors. Presently, gathering up
a pair of cups and saucers, he said: "These should
be in a glass case or in the safe. They are old Spode
and very rare. Ah, here is Mr. Kling! I have amused
myself, sir, in looking over part of your stock. You
seem to have undervalued these cups and saucers.
They are very rare, and if you had a full set of them
they would be almost priceless. This is old Spode,"
he continued, pointing to the cipher on the bottom of
each cup.

"Vell, I didn't tink dot ven I bought it."

There was no greeting, no reference to their having
met before. One might have supposed that their last
talk had been uninterrupted.

"It vas all in a lump, and der vas a soup tureen in
de lot--I don't know vot I did vid it. I tink dat's
up-stairs. Mike, you go up and ask my little girl
Masie if she can find dot big tureen vich I bought
from old Mrs. Blobbs who keeps dot old-clothes place
on Second Avenue. And you vas sure about dis
china?"

"Very sure."

"How do you know?"

"From the mark."

"Vot's it vorth?"

"The cups and saucers would bring about two pounds
apiece in London. If there were a full dozen they
would bring a matter of fifteen or twenty pounds--
some hundred dollars of your money."

Kling stepped nearer and peered intently at the
stranger. "You give dot for dem?"

The man's eyebrows narrowed. "I am not buying
cups at present," he answered, with quiet dignity, "but
they are worth what I tell you.

"And now tell me vot dis tureen is vorth?" he asked
as Mike reappeared and set it on the table, backing
away with the remark that he'd go now, Mrs. Cleary
would be wantin' him. Kling moved the relic toward
the expert for closer examination.

"Don't trouble yourself, Mr. Kling; I can see it. All
I can say is that the old lady must have known better
days and must have been terribly poor to have parted
with it. What, if I may ask, did you pay her for
this?"

"Two dollars. Vas it too much?" The stranger
had suddenly become an important personage.

"No--too little. It is old Lowestoft, and"--here he
took the lid from the dealer's hand--"yes, without a
crack or blemish--yes, old Lowestoft--worth, I should
say, ten or more pounds. They are giving large sums
for these things in London. Perhaps you have not
made a specialty of china."

Otto had now forgotten the tureen and was scrutinizing
the speaker, wondering what kind of a man
he really was--this fellow who looked and spoke like
a person of position, knew the value of curios at sight,
and yet who had confessed the night before to being
behind with his rent and anxious to sell his belongings
to keep off the street. Then the doubt, universal in
the minds of second-hand dealers, arose. "Come along
vid me and tell me some more. Vot is dot chair?"
and he drew out a freshly varnished relic of better
days.

The man seized the chair by the back, canted it to
see all sides of it, and was about to give his decision
when the laughter of a child and the sharp, quick bark
of a dog caused him to pause and raise his head. A
white fox-terrier with a clothes-pin tail, two scissored
ears, and two restless, shoe-button eyes, peering through
button-hole lids, followed by a little girl ten or twelve
years of age, was regarding him suspiciously.

"He won't hurt you," cried the child. "Come back,
you naughty Fudge!"

"I do not intend he shall," said the man, reaching
down and picking the dog up bodily by the scruff of
his neck. "What is the matter, old fellow?" he continued,
twisting the dog's head so that he could look
into his eyes. "Wanted to make a meal of me?--
too bad. Your little daughter, of course, Mr. Kling?
A very good breed of dog, my dear young lady--just
a little nervous, and that is in his favor. Now, sir,
make your excuses to your mistress," and he placed
the terrier in her arms.

The child lifted her face toward his in delight. Most
of the men whom Fudge attacked either shrunk out
of his way or replied to his attentions with a kick.

"You love dogs, don't you, sir?" she asked. Fudge
was now routing his sharp nose under her chin as if
in apology for his antics.

"I am afraid I do, and I am glad you do--they are
sometimes the best friends one has."

"Yes," broke in Kling, "and so am I glad. Dot dog
is more as a brudder to my Masie, ain't he, Beesvings?
And now you run avay, dear, and play, and take
Fudge vid you and say 'Good morning' to Mrs. Cleary,
and maybe dot fool dog of Bobby's be home." He
stooped and kissed her, caressing her cheek with his
thumb and forefinger, as he pushed her toward the
door, and again turned to the stranger. "And now,
vot about dot chair you got in your hand?"

"Oh, the chair! I had forgotten that you had asked.
Your little daughter drove everything else out of my
head. Let me have a closer look." He swung it
round to get a nearer view.

"The legs--that is, three of them--are Chippendale.
The back is a nondescript of something--I cannot tell.
Perhaps from some colonial remnant."

"Vot's it vorth?"

"Nothing, except to sit upon."

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