15a The Prince and Betty

“Hello!” he said.

“Welcome to our city,” said John, stepping unostentatiously between him and the stairs.

Master Maloney, who had taken advantage of the interruption to edge back into the center of things, now appeared to consider the question of his departure permanently shelved. He sidled to a corner of the landing, and sat down on an empty soap box with the air of a dramatic critic at the opening night of a new play. The scene looked good to him. It promised interesting developments. He was an earnest student of the drama, as exhibited in the theaters of the East Side, and few had ever applauded the hero of “Escaped from Sing Sing,” or hissed the villain of “Nellie, the Beautiful Cloak-model” with more fervor. He liked his drama to have plenty of action, and to his practised eye this one promised well. There was a set expression on John’s face which suggested great things.

His pleasure was abruptly quenched. John, placing a firm hand on his collar, led him to the top of the stairs and pushed him down.

“Beat it,” he said.

The rent-collector watched these things with a puzzled eye. He now turned to John.

“Say, seen anything of the wops that live here?” he enquired. “My name’s Gooch. I’ve come to take the rent.”

John nodded.

“I don’t think there’s much chance of your seeing them to-night,” he said. “The father, I hear, is in prison. You won’t get any rent out of him.”

“Then it’s outside for theirs,” said Mr. Gooch definitely.

“What about the kid?” said John. “Where’s he to go?”

“That’s up to him. Nothing to do with me. I’m only acting under orders from up top.”

“Whose orders?” enquired John.

“The gent who owns this joint.”

“Who is he?”

Suspicion crept into the protruding eyes of the rent-collector.

“Say!” he demanded. “Who are you anyway, and what do you think you’re doing here? That’s what I’d like to know. What do you want with the name of the owner of this place? What business is it of yours?”

“I’m a newspaper man.”

“I guessed you were,” said Mr. Gooch with triumph. “You can’t bluff me. Well, it’s no good, sonny. I’ve nothing for you. You’d better chase off and try something else.”

He became more friendly.

“Say, though,” he said, “I just guessed you were from some paper. I wish I could give you a story, but I can’t. I guess it’s this Peaceful Moments business that’s been and put your editor on to this joint, ain’t it? Say, though, that’s a queer thing, that paper. Why, only a few weeks ago it used to be a sort of take- home-and-read-to-the-kids affair. A friend of mine used to buy it regular. And then suddenly it comes out with a regular whoop, and starts knocking these tenements and boosting Kid Brady, and all that. It gets past me. All I know is that it’s begun to get this place talked about. Why, you see for yourself how it is. Here is your editor sending you down to get a story about it. But, say, those Peaceful Moments guys are taking big risks. I tell you straight they are, and I know. I happen to be wise to a thing or two about what’s going on on the other side, and I tell you there’s going to be something doing if they don’t cut it out quick. Mr. Qem, the fellow who owns this place isn’t the man to sit still and smile. He’s going to get busy. Say, what paper do you come from?”

“Peaceful Moments,” said John.

For a moment the inwardness of the information did not seem to come home to Mr. Gooch. Then it hit him. He spun round. John was standing squarely between him and the stairs.

“Hey, what’s all this?” demanded Mr. Gooch nervously. The light was dim in the passage, but it was sufficiently light to enable him to see John’s face, and it did not reassure him.

“I’ll soon tell you,” said John. “First, however, let’s get this business of the kid’s rent settled. Take it out of this and give me the receipt.”

He pulled out a bill.

“Curse his rent,” said Mr. Gooch. “Let me pass.”

“Soon,” said John. “Business before pleasure. How much does the kid have to pay for the privilege of suffocating in this infernal place? As much as that? Well, give me a receipt, and then we can get on to more important things.”

“Let me pass.”

“Receipt,” said John laconically.

Mr. Gooch looked at the big stick, then scribbled a few words in his notebook and tore out the page. John thanked him.

“I will see that it reaches him,” he said. “And now will you kindly tell me the name of the man for whom you collected that money?”

“Let me pass,” bellowed Mr. Gooch. “I’ll bring an action against you for assault and battery. Playing a fool game like this! Get away from those stairs.”

“There has been no assault and battery—yet,” said John. “Well, are you going to tell me?”

Mr. Gooch shuffled restlessly. John leaned against the banisters.