CHAPTER XIII
BETTY MAKES A FRIEND
Betty had appealed to Master Maloney's esthetic sense of beautydirectly she appeared before him. It was with regret, therefore, ratherthan with the usual calm triumph of the office boy, that he informedher that the editor was not in. Also, seeing that she was evidentlyperturbed by the information, he had gone out of his way to suggestthat she lay her business, whatever it might be, before Mr. Renshaw'stemporary successor.
Smith received her with Old-World courtesy.
"Will you sit down?" he said. "Not to wait for Comrade Renshaw, ofcourse. He will not be back for another three months. Perhaps I canhelp you. I am acting editor. The work is not light," he addedgratuitously. "Sometimes the cry goes round New York, 'Can Smith getthrough it all? Will his strength support his unquenchable spirit?' ButI stagger on. I do not repine. What was it that you wished to seeComrade Renshaw about?"
He swung his monocle lightly by its cord. For the first time since shehad entered the office Betty was rather glad that Mr. Renshaw was away.Conscious of her defects as a stenographer she had been looking forwardsomewhat apprehensively to the interview with her prospective employer.But this long, solemn youth put her at her ease. His manner suggestedin some indefinable way that the whole thing was a sort of round game.
"I came about the typewriting," she said.
Smith looked at her with interest.
"Are you the nominee?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Do you come from Mrs. Oakley?"
"Yes."
"Then all is well. The decks have been cleared against your coming.Consider yourself engaged as our official typist. By the way,_can_ you type?"
Betty laughed. This was certainly not the awkward interview she hadbeen picturing in her mind.
"Yes," she said, "but I'm afraid I'm not very good at it."
"Never mind," said Smith. "I'm not very good at editing. Yet here I am.I foresee that we shall make an ideal team. Together, we will toilearly and late till we whoop up this domestic journal into a shiningmodel of what a domestic journal should be. What that is, at present, Ido not exactly know. Excursion trains will be run from the Middle Westto see this domestic journal. Visitors from Oshkosh will do it beforegoing on to Grant's tomb. What exactly is your name?"
Betty hesitated. Yes, perhaps it would be better. "Brown," she said.
"Mine is Smith. The smiling child in the outer office is Pugsy Maloney,one of our most prominent citizens. Homely in appearance, perhaps, butone of us. You will get to like Comrade Maloney. And now, to touch on apainful subject--work. Would you care to start in now, or have you anyother engagements? Perhaps you wish to see the sights of this beautifullittle city before beginning? You would prefer to start in now?Excellent. You could not have come at a more suitable time, for I wason the very point of sallying out to purchase about twenty-five cents'worth of lunch. We editors, Comrade Brown, find that our tissues needconstant restoration, such is the strenuous nature of our duties. Youwill find one or two letters on that table. Good-by, then, for thepresent."
He picked up his hat, smoothed it carefully and with a courtlyinclination of his head, left the room.
Betty sat down, and began to think. So she was really earning her ownliving! It was a stimulating thought. She felt a little bewildered. Shehad imagined something so different. Mrs. Oakley had certainly saidthat _Peaceful Moments_ was a small paper, but despite that, herimagination had conjured up visions of bustle and activity, and aperemptory, overdriven editor, snapping out words of command. Smith,with his careful speech and general air of calm detachment from thenoisy side of life, created an atmosphere of restfulness. If this was asample of life in the office, she thought, the paper had been wellnamed. She felt soothed and almost happy.
Interesting and exciting things, New York things, began to happen atonce. To her, meditating, there entered Pugsy Maloney, the guardian ofthe gate of this shrine of Peace, a nonchalant youth of about fifteen,with a freckled, mask-like face, the expression of which never varied,bearing in his arms a cat. The cat was struggling violently, but heappeared quite unconscious of it. Its existence did not seem to occurto him.
"Say!" said Pugsy.
Betty was fond of cats.
"Oh, don't hurt her!" she cried anxiously.
Master Maloney eyed the cat as if he were seeing it for the first time.
"I wasn't hoitin' her," he said, without emotion. "Dere was two freshkids in the street sickin' a dawg on to her. And I comes up and says,'G'wan! What do youse t'ink youse doin', fussin' de poor dumb animal?'An' one of de guys, he says, 'G'wan! Who do youse t'ink youse is?' An'I says, 'I'm de guy what's goin' to swat youse on de coco, smarty, ifyouse don't quit fussin' de poor dumb animal.' So wit' dat he makes abreak at swattin' me one, but I swats him one, an' I swats de odderfeller one, an' den I swats dem bote some more, an' I gits de kitty,an' I brings her in here, cos I t'inks maybe youse'll look after her. Ican't be boddered myself. Cats is foolishness."
And, having finished this Homeric narrative, Master Maloney fixed anexpressionless eye on the ceiling, and was silent.
"How splendid of you, Pugsy!" cried Betty. "She might have been killed,poor thing."
"She had it pretty fierce," admitted Master Maloney, gazingdispassionately at the rescued animal, which had escaped from hisclutch and taken up a strong position on an upper shelf of thebookcase.
"Will you go out and get her some milk, Pugsy? She's probably starving.Here's a quarter. Will you keep the change?"
"Sure thing," assented Master Maloney.
He strolled slowly out, while Betty, mounting a chair, proceeded tochirrup and snap her fingers in the effort to establish the foundationsof an _entente cordiale_ with the cat.
By the time Pugsy returned, carrying a five-cent bottle of milk, theanimal had vacated the shelf, and was sitting on the table, polishingher face. The milk having been poured into the lid of a tobacco tin, inlieu of a saucer, she suspended her operations and adjourned forrefreshments, Pugsy, having no immediate duties on hand, concentratedhimself on the cat.
"Say!" he said.
"Well?"
"Dat kitty. Pipe de leather collar she's wearin'."
Betty had noticed earlier in the proceedings that a narrow leathercollar encircled the animal's neck.
"Guess I know where dat kitty belongs. Dey all has dose collars. Iguess she's one of Bat Jarvis's kitties. He's got twenty-t'ree of dem,and dey all has dose collars."
"Bat Jarvis?"
"Sure."
"Who is he?"
Pugsy looked at her incredulously.
"Say! Ain't youse never heard of Bat Jarvis? He's--he's Bat Jarvis."
"Do you know him?"
"Sure, I knows him."
"Does he live near here?"
"Sure, he lives near here."
"Then I think the best thing for you to do is to run round and tell himthat I am taking care of his cat, and that he had better come and fetchit. I must be getting on with my work, or I shall never finish it."
She settled down to type the letters Smith had indicated. She attackedher task cautiously. She was one of those typists who are at their bestwhen they do not have to hurry.
She was putting the finishing touches to the last of the batch, whenthere was a shuffling of feet in the outer room, followed by a knock onthe door. The next moment there entered a short, burly young man,around whom there hung, like an aroma, an indescribable air oftoughness, partly due, perhaps, to the fact that he wore his hair in awell-oiled fringe almost down to his eyebrows, thus presenting theappearance of having no forehead at all. His eyes were small and setclose together. His mouth was wide, his jaw prominent. Not, in short,the sort of man you would have picked out on sight as a model citizen.He blinked furtively, as his eyes met Betty's, and looked round theroom. His face lighted up as he saw the cat.
"Say!" he said, stepping forward, and touching the cat's collar."Ma'am, mine!"
"Are you Mr. Jarvis?" asked Betty.
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br /> The visitor nodded, not without a touch of complacency, as of a monarchabandoning his incognito.
For Mr. Jarvis was a celebrity.
By profession he was a dealer in animals, birds, and snakes. He had afancier's shop on Groome Street, in the heart of the Bowery. This wason the ground floor. His living abode was in the upper story of thathouse, and it was there that he kept the twenty-three cats whose neckswere adorned with leather collars.
But it was not the fact that he possessed twenty-three cats withleather collars that had made Mr. Jarvis a celebrity. A man may win alocal reputation, if only for eccentricity, by such means. Mr. Jarvis'reputation was far from being purely local. Broadway knew him, and theTenderloin. Tammany Hall knew him. Long Island City knew him. For BatJarvis was the leader of the famous Groome Street Gang, the largest andmost influential of the four big gangs of the East Side.
To Betty, so little does the world often know of its greatest men, hewas merely a decidedly repellent-looking young man in unbecomingclothes. But his evident affection for the cat gave her a feeling offellowship toward him. She beamed upon him, and Mr. Jarvis, who waswont to face the glare of rivals without flinching, avoided her eye andshuffled with embarrassment.
"I'm so glad she's safe!" said Betty. "There were two boys teasing herin the street. I've been giving her some milk."
Mr. Jarvis nodded, with his eyes on the floor.
There was a pause. Then he looked up, and, fixing his gaze some threefeet above her head, spoke.
"Say!" he said, and paused again. Betty waited expectantly.
He relaxed into silence again, apparently thinking.
"Say!" he said. "Ma'am, obliged. Fond of de kit. I am."
"She's a dear," said Betty, tickling the cat under the ear.
"Ma'am," went on Mr. Jarvis, pursuing his theme, "obliged. Sha'n'tfergit it. Any time you're in bad, glad to be of service. Bat Jarvis.Groome Street. Anybody'll show youse where I live."
He paused, and shuffled his feet; then, tucking the cat more firmlyunder his arm, left the room. Betty heard him shuffling downstairs.
He had hardly gone, when the door opened again, and Smith came in.
"So you have had company while I was away?" he said. "Who was thegrandee with the cat? An old childhood's friend? Was he trying to sellthe animal to us?"
"That was Mr. Bat Jarvis," said Betty.
Smith looked interested.
"Bat! What was he doing here?"
Betty related the story of the cat. Smith nodded thoughtfully.
"Well," he said, "I don't know that Comrade Jarvis is precisely thesort of friend I would go out of my way to select. Still, you neverknow what might happen. He might come in useful. And now, let usconcentrate ourselves tensely on this very entertaining little journalof ours, and see if we cannot stagger humanity with it."
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