down and flick the dust off me shoes with your wipe, like a good lad, will ye? That’s the worst o’ these ‘ere patent leathers; they looks well, but they sure ketches th’ dust, Joe, they ketches the dust oncommon bad. So jest give ‘em a flick over—me pore old back’s too stiff t’ let me reach ‘em, what wi’ me rheumatiz an’ a floatin’ kidney or so —”
“Kidneys!” snarled Joe, drawing out a large bandanna handkerchief and polishing the old man’s natty shoes until they shone resplendent. “What’s the matter with ye blessed kidneys now?”
“Don’t I tell ye—they floats, Joe, they floats!”
“Float!” growled Joe. “Float—where to?”
“‘Ere, there, an’ everywhere, Joe, I can feel ‘em! They’re always a-gettin’ theirselves all mixed up any’ow. Oh, it’s an ‘orrible complaint to ‘ave kidneys like mine as gets theirselves lost.”
“Wish they’d lose you along with ‘em!” growled Joe, shaking the dust from his handkerchief.
“Joe,” said the old man, putting on his hat and blinking up at him beneath its jaunty brim, “Joe, sometimes I fair despise ye!”
“Well, despise away,” nodded Joe, “only get up—stand up on them doddering old pins o’ yourn.”
“Not me!” declared the Old Un, “I ain’t goin’ to climb no more o’ these perishin’ stairs—no, not for you nor nobody. ‘Ere I am, me lad, an’ ‘ere I sits till you give me a piggy-back up to the top—me bein’ a pore old cove with rheumatiz. I demands it—”
“You’ll what?” growled Joe, hard-breathing and indignant.
“Demand it, Joe—a pore old feller wi’ kidneys—an’ every other ailment as flesh is hair to—a piggy-back, Joe—a piggy-back!”
Without another word Joe stooped, and lifting the old man beneath one arm, bore him up the stairs regardless of his croaking protestations and fierce invective.
“I said a piggy-back—oh, you blightin’ perisher, I said a piggy-back,” he snarled, his resplendent shoes twinkling in futile kicks. “Oh, Joe, there’s times when I fair ‘ates ye!”
Thus, despite virulent curses and feeble kickings, Joe bore him on and up until, as he climbed the last flight, he was arrested by an exclamation from above, and glancing upward, beheld a tall, sharp-featured woman who leaned over the rail.
“Oh, land o’ my fathers!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, “what’s the matter—what you got there? Who are ye?”
“The matter, ma’am,” answered Joe, for by this time the Old Un had cursed himself quite breathless, “the matter’s contrariness; what I ‘ave under my arm, ma’am, is a old reprobate, and I’m Joe Madden, ma’am, come to take tea with my—come, as you might say, a visiting to Mr. Geoffrey; p’raps you’ll—”
“Don’t ‘eed ‘im, ma’am—never ‘eed ‘im!” croaked the Old Un, who had regained his wind by now. “‘E ‘s a perishin’ pork pig, that’s wot ‘e is. Joe, you blighter, put me down. It’s me as the Guv expects—it’s me as ‘as come a-visitin’—Joe, put me down, you perisher. Joe’s only a hoaf, ma’am, a nass, ma’am. Joe ain’t used to perlite serciety, Joe don’t know nothin’—put me down, Joe, like a good lad!”
At this juncture Ravenslee appeared, whereupon Joe, having reached the topmost landing, set the old man upon his natty feet and fell to straightening his smart clothes with hands big but gentle.
“Sir,” explained Joe, answering Ravenslee’s smiling look, “Old Sin an’ Sorrer here wouldn’t walk up, which forced me to—”
But now the Old Un, feeling himself again, cut in on his own account. “Ma’am,” said he, flourishing off his hat to Mrs. Trapes, “‘ere ‘s me an’ me lad Joe come to tea—my best respex an’ greetin’s, ma’am. How do, Guv? I do ‘ope as you ain’t forgot th’ cake.”
“Oh, we’ve plenty of cake, Old Un!” laughed Ravenslee.
“An’ water cress an’ jam!” nodded Mrs. Trapes.
“Guv,” said the old man, gripping Ravenslee’s hand, “God bless ye for a true man an’ a noble sport. Ma’am, you’re a angel! Jam, ma’am—you’re a nymp’—you’re two nymp’s—
“‘I oft would cast a rovin’ eye Ere these white ‘airs I grew, ma’am, To see a ‘andsome nymp’ go by, But none s’ fair as you, ma’am.’
“An’ there’s me hand on it, ma’am.”
“My land!” ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, staring; then all at once she laughed, a strange laugh that came and went again immediately, yet left her features a little less grim than usual, as, reaching out, she grasped the old man’s feeble hand.
“I guess you’re only bein’ p’lite,” said she, “but jest for that you’re sure goin’ t’ eat as much cake an’ jam as your small insides can hold.” So saying, she led the way into her small and very neat domain and ushered them into the bright little parlour where the Spider sat already enthroned in that armchair whereon sunflowers rioted. Like the chair, the Spider was somewhat exotic as to socks and tie, and he seemed a trifle irked by stiff cuffs and collar as he sat staring at the green and yellow tablecloth and doing his best not to tread upon the pink hearthrug.
“Joe,” said Ravenslee, “this is Spider Connolly, who knocked out Larry McKinnon at San Francisco last year in the sixty-ninth. Spider, I want you to shake hands with—”
“Bo,” exclaimed the Spider, rising reverently and taking a step toward Joe’s massive figure, quite forgetful of the pink hearthrug now, “you don’t have t’ tell me nothin’. I guess I know th’ best all-round fightin’ man, the greatest champion as ever swung a mitt, when I see him! T’ shake his hand’ll sure be—”
“Young feller, me lad,” cried the Old Un, reaching out nimbly and catching the Spider’s extended hand, “you got a sharp eye, a true eye—a eye as can discrimpinate, like—ah, like a flash o’ light. You’re right, me lad, I was the best fightin’ man, the greatest champeen as ever was—sixty odd years ago. Ho, yus, I were the best of ‘em all, an’ I ain’t t’ be sniffed at now. So shake me ‘and, me lad—an’ shake—hard!”
The Spider’s grim jaw relaxed, and his eyes opened very wide as the Old Un continued to shake his hand up and down.
