Mr. Thomas took the pail and went to the corner. As he left the room, Mrs. Jones slapped her knee and laughed until her bust shook like jelly.
“Mr. Thomas is a case, sho’,” she said; “but he likes you all, an’ I’m mighty glad of it, fu’ he’s mighty curious about the house when he don’t like the roomers.”
Joe felt distinctly flattered, for he found their new acquaintance charming. His mother was still a little doubtful, and Kitty was sure she found the young man “fresh.”
He came in pretty soon with his beer, and a half-dozen crabs in a bag.
“Thought I’d bring home something to chew. I always like to eat something with my beer.”
Mrs. Jones brought in the glasses, and the young man filled one and turned to Kitty.
“No, thanks,” she said with a surprised look.
“What, don’t you drink beer? Oh, come now, you’ll get out o’ that.”
“Kitty don’t drink no beer,” broke in her mother with mild resentment. “I drinks it sometimes, but she don’t. I reckon maybe de chillen better go to bed.”
Joe felt as if the “chillen” had ruined all his hopes, but Kitty rose.
The ingratiating “N’Yawker” was aghast.
“Oh, let ’em stay,” said Mrs. Jones heartily; “a little beer ain’t goin’ to hurt ’em. Why, sakes, I know my father gave me beer from the time I could drink it, and I knows I ain’t none the worse fu’ it.”
“They’ll git out o’ that, all right, if they live in N’Yawk,” said Mr. Thomas, as he poured out a glass and handed it to Joe. “You neither?”
“Oh, I drink it,” said the boy with an air, but not looking at his mother.
“Joe,” she cried to him, “you must ricollect you ain’t at home. What ’ud yo’ pa think?” Then she stopped suddenly, and Joe gulped his beer and Kitty went to the piano to relieve her embarrassment.
“Yes, that’s it, Miss Kitty, sing us something,” said the irrepressible Thomas, “an’ after while we’ll have that fellah down that plays ragtime. He’s out o’ sight, I tell you.”
With the pretty shyness of girlhood, Kitty sang one or two little songs in the simple manner she knew. Her voice was full and rich. It delighted Mr. Thomas.
“I say, that’s singin’ now, I tell you,” he cried. “You ought to have some o’ the new songs. D’jever hear ‘Baby, you got to leave’? I tell you, that’s a hot one. I’ll bring you some of ’em. Why, you could git a job on the stage easy with that voice o’ yourn. I got a frien’ in one o’ the comp’nies an’ I’ll speak to him about you.”
“You ought to git Mr. Thomas to take you to the th’atre some night. He goes lots.”
“Why, yes, what’s the matter with tomorrer night? There’s a good coon show in town. Out o’ sight. Let’s all go.”
“I ain’t nevah been to nothin’ lak dat, an’ I don’t know,” said Mrs. Hamilton.
“Aw, come, I’ll git the tickets an’ we’ll all go. Great singin’, you know. What d’ you say?”
The mother hesitated, and Joe filled the breach.
“We’d all like to go,” he said. “Ma, we’ll go if you ain’t too tired.”
“Tired? Pshaw, you’ll furgit all about your tiredness when Smithkins gits on the stage. Y’ought to hear him sing, ‘I bin huntin’ fu’ wo’k’! You’d die laughing.”
Mrs. Hamilton made no further demur, and the matter was closed.
Awhile later the ragtime man came down and gave them a sample of what they were to hear the next night. Mr. Thomas and Mrs. Jones two-stepped, and they sent a boy after some more beer. Joe found it a very jolly evening, but Kit’s and the mother’s hearts were heavy as they went up to bed.
“Say,” said Mr. Thomas when they had gone, “that little girl’s a peach, you bet; a little green, I guess, but she’ll ripen in the sun.”
VIII
An Evening Out
Fannie Hamilton, tired as she was, sat long into the night with her little family discussing New York—its advantages and disadvantages, its beauty and its ugliness, its morality and immorality. She had somewhat receded from her first position, that it was better being here in the great strange city than being at home where the very streets shamed them. She had not liked the way that their fellow lodger looked at Kitty. It was bold, to say the least. She was not pleased, either, with their new acquaintance’s familiarity. And yet, he had said no more than some stranger, if there could be such a stranger, would have said down home. There was a difference, however, which she recognised. Thomas was not the provincial who puts everyone on a par with himself, nor was he the metropolitan who complacently patronises the whole world. He was trained out of the one and not up to the other. The intermediate only succeeded in being offensive. Mrs. Jones’ assurance as to her guest’s fine qualities did not do all that might have been expected to reassure Mrs. Hamilton in the face of the difficulties of the gentleman’s manner.
She could not, however, lay her finger on any particular point that would give her the reason for rejecting his friendly advances. She got ready the next evening to go to the theatre with the rest. Mr. Thomas at once possessed himself of Kitty and walked on ahead, leaving Joe to accompany his mother and Mrs. Jones—an arrangement, by the way, not altogether to that young gentleman’s taste. A good many men bowed to Thomas in the street, and they turned to look enviously after him. At the door of the theatre they had to run the gantlet of a dozen pairs of eyes. Here, too, the party’s guide seemed to be well known, for someone said, before they passed out
