“This is what comes of asking God to help a fellow,” said he to himself. “Strange, too, that He should answer my prayer in part before I asked, by causing that queer jumble of good and evil, Bill Cronk, to suggest to me this way of turning an honest penny. I wish Bill was as good a friend to himself as he is to others. I fear that he will go to the dogs. Bless me! the gnawings of hunger are bad enough, but what must be those of conscience? I think I can astonish my German friend today as never before;” and, shouldering his shovel, he walked back to dinner, feeling like a prince bearing aloft the insignia of his power.
When he entered the bar and lunch room, he saw that something was wrong. The landlord met him, instead of his jolly, satirical friend.
Now the owner of the place was a wizen-faced, dried-up old anatomy, who seemed utterly exhaling away in tobacco smoke, while his assistant was becoming spherical under the expansive power of lager. It was his custom to sit up and smoke most of the night, and therefore he was down late in the morning. When he appeared his assistant told him of the bargain he had made with Dennis as a good joke. But old Hans hadn’t any faculty for jokes. Dollars and cents and his big meerschaum made up the two elements of his life. The thought of losing zwei shillings or zwei cents by Dennis, or anyone else, caused him anguish, and instead of laughing, his fun-loving assistant was aghast at seeing him fall into a passion.
“You be von big fule. Vat for we keep mens here who haf no money? You should gleared him off, instead of making pargains for him to eat us out of der house.”
“We haf his trunk,” said Jacob, for that was his name.
“Nothin’ in it,” growled Hans, yet somewhat mollified by this fact. When Dennis appeared, he put the case without any circumlocution: “I makes my livin’ by keepin’ dis house. I can no make my livin’ unless efrypodies bays me. I haf reason to dink dot you haf no moneys. Vat ish de druf? ’Gause if you haf none, you can no longer stay here.”
“Have I not paid for everything I have had so far?” said Dennis.
“Dot is not der question. Haf you got any moneys?”
“What is your bill in advance up to Monday morning?”
“Zwei dollar and a quarter, if you dake preakfast.”
“Deduct breakfast and dinner today for clearing off the sidewalk.”
“Dot ish too much; you did it in half-hour.”
“Well, it would have taken you three. But a bargain is a bargain, the world over. Did not you promise it?”—to Jacob.
“Yah! und you shall haf him, too, if I be der loser. Yahcob Bunk ish not der man to go pack on his vort.”
“Vel, den,” said old Hans, “von dollar sheventy-five to Monday morning.”
“There’s the money; now let me have my dinner, for I am in a hurry.”
At the sight of money Hans at once became the most obsequious of hosts, and so would remain while it lasted. But Dennis saw that the moment it was gone his purchased courtesy would change, and he trembled at his narrow escape from being thrust out into the wintry streets, friendless, penniless, to beg or starve—equally hard alternatives to his mind.
“Come, Yahcob, thou snail, give der shentlemans his dinner,” said Hans.
Jacob, who had been looking on with heavy, stolid face, now brightened up on seeing that all was right, and gave Dennis a double portion of the steaming potpie, and a huge mug of coffee. When Dennis had finished these and crowned his repast with a big dumpling, Jacob came to him with a face as long and serious as his harvest moon of a visage could be made, and said: “Dere ish nodding more in Chicago; you haf gleaned it out. Ve must vait dill der evenin’ drain gomes pefore ve haf supper.”
“That will be time enough for me,” said Dennis, laughing—for he could laugh today at little things—and started off again with his shovel.
IX
Land at Last
During the latter part of a busy afternoon, Dennis came to a spacious, elegant store before which the snow lay untouched save as trodden by passersby. Over the high arched doorway was the legend in gilt letters, “Art Building”; and as far as a mere warehouse for beautiful things could deserve the title, this place did, for it was crowded with engravings, paintings, bronzes, statuary, and every variety of ornament. With delighted eyes and lingering steps he had passed slowly through this store a few days previous in his search, but had received the usual cool negative. He had gone reluctantly out into the cold street again as Adam went out of Paradise.
A large florid-looking man with a light curling mustache now stood in the doorway. His appearance was unmistakably that of a German of the highest and most cultivated type. And yet, when he spoke, his English was so good that you detected only a foreign accent. Strong vexation was stamped upon his face as he looked at the snowy, untidy sidewalk.
“Mr. Schwartz,” he asked of one of his clerks, “was Pat here this morning?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was he perfectly straight?”
“I cannot say that he was, sir.”
“He is off on a spree again. Send him to me the moment he returns.”
“Shall I clear your sidewalk?” said Dennis, stepping up and touching his hat respectfully.
“Yes,” said the gentleman, scarcely looking at him; “and when you have finished come to the office for your money;” and then he walked back into the store with a frowning brow.
Though Dennis was now pretty thoroughly fatigued with the hard day’s work, he entered on this task with a good will as the closing labor of the day, hoping, from the wide space to be cleared, to receive proportionate recompense. And yet his despatch was
