T. Tembarom. Frances Hodgson Burnett

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СКАЧАТЬ of poppies of great boldness of hue. They had either been Christmas gifts bestowed upon Mrs. Bowse or department-store bargains of her own selection, purchased with thrifty intent. The red-and-green plush upholstered walnut chairs arid sofa had been acquired by her when the bankruptcy of a neighboring boarding-house brought them within her means. They were no longer very red or very green, and the cheerfully hopeful design of the tidies and cushions had been to conceal worn places and stains. The mantelpiece was adorned by a black-walnut-and-gold-framed mirror, and innumerable vases of the ornate ninety-eight-cents order. The centerpiece held a large and extremely soiled spray of artificial wistaria. The end of the room was rendered attractive by a tent-like cozy-corner built of savage weapons and Oriental cotton stuffs long ago become stringy and almost leprous in hue. The proprietor of the bankrupt boarding-house had been “artistic.” But Mrs. Bowse was a good-enough soul whose boarders liked her and her house, and when the gas was lighted and some one played “rag-time” on the second-hand pianola, they liked the parlor.

      Little Ann did not often appear in it, but now and then she came down with her bit of sewing—she always had a “bit of sewing,”—and she sat in the cozy-corner listening to the talk or letting some one confide troubles to her. Sometimes it was the New England widow, Mrs. Peck, who looked like a spinster school-ma'am, but who had a married son with a nice wife who lived in Harlem and drank heavily. She used to consult with Little Ann as to the possible wisdom of putting a drink deterrent privately in his tea. Sometimes it was Mr. Jakes, a depressed little man whose wife had left him, for no special reason he could discover. Oftenest perhaps it was Julius Steinberger or Jim Bowles who did their ingenuous best to present themselves to her as energetic, if not successful, young business men, not wholly unworthy of attention and always breathing daily increasing devotion. Sometimes it was Tembarom, of whom her opinion had never been expressed, but who seemed to have made friends with her. She liked to hear about the newspaper office and Mr. Galton, and never was uninterested in his hopes of “making good.” She seemed to him the wisest and most direct and composed person he had ever known. She spoke with the broad, flat, friendly Manchester accent, and when she let drop a suggestion, it carried a delightfully sober conviction with it, because what she said was generally a revelation of logical mental argument concerning details she had gathered through her little way of listening and saying nothing whatever.

      “If Mr. Biker drinks, he won't keep his place,” she said to Tembarom one night. “Perhaps you might get it yourself, if you persevere.”

      Tembarom reddened a little. He really reddened through joyous excitement.

      “Say, I didn't know you knew a thing about that,” he answered. “You're a regular wonder. You scarcely ever say anything, but the way you get on to things gets me.”

      “Perhaps if I talked more I shouldn't notice as much,” she said, turning her bit of sewing round and examining it. “I never was much of a talker. Father's a good talker, and Mother and me got into the way of listening. You do if you live with a good talker.”

      Tembarom looked at the girl with a male gentleness, endeavoring to subdue open expression of the fact that he was convinced that she was as thoroughly aware of her father's salient characteristics as she was of other things.

      “You do,” said Tembarom. Then picking up her scissors, which had dropped from her lap, and politely returning them, he added anxiously: “To think of you remembering Biker! I wonder, if I ever did get his job, if I could hold it down?”

      “Yes,” decided Little Ann; “you could. I've noticed you're that kind of person, Mr. Tembarom.”

      “Have you?” he said elatedly. “Say, honest Injun?”

      “Yes.”

      “I shall be getting stuck on myself if you encourage me like that,” he said, and then, his face falling, he added, “Biker graduated at Princeton.”

      “I don't know much about society,” Little Ann remarked—“I never saw any either up-town or down-town or in the country—but I shouldn't think you'd have to have a college education to write the things you see about it in the newspaper paragraphs.”

      Tembarom grinned.

      “They're not real high-brow stuff, are they,” he said. “'There was a brilliant gathering on Tuesday evening at the house of Mr. Jacob Sturtburger at 79 Two Hundredth Street on the occasion of the marriage of his daughter Miss Rachel Sturtburger to Mr. Eichenstein. The bride was attired in white peau de cygne trimmed with duchess lace.'”

      Little Ann took him up. “I don't know what peau de cygne is, and I daresay the bride doesn't. I've never been to anything but a village school, but I could make up paragraphs like that myself.”

      “That's the up-town kind,” said Tembarom. “The down-town ones wear their mothers' point-lace wedding-veils some-times, but they're not much different. Say, I believe I could do it if I had luck.”

      “So do I,” returned Little Ann.

      Tembarom looked down at the carpet, thinking the thing over. Ann went on sewing.

      “That's the way with you,” he said presently: “you put things into a fellow's head. You've given me a regular boost, Little Ann.”

      It is not unlikely that but for the sensible conviction in her voice he would have felt less bold when, two weeks later, Biker, having gone upon a “bust” too prolonged, was dismissed with-out benefit of clergy, and Galton desperately turned to Tembarom with anxious question in his eye.

      “Do you think you could take this job?” he said.

      Tembarom's heart, as he believed at the time, jumped into his throat.

      “What do you think, Mr. Galton?” he asked.

      “It isn't a thing to think about,” was Galton's answer. “It's a thing I must be sure of.”

      “Well,” said Tembarom, “if you give it to me, I'll put up a mighty hard fight before I fall down.”

      Galton considered him, scrutinizing keenly his tough, long-built body, his sharp, eager, boyish face, and especially his companionable grin.

      “We'll let it go at that,” he decided. “You'll make friends up in Harlem, and you won't find it hard to pick up news. We can at least try it.”

      Tembarom's heart jumped into his throat again, and he swallowed it once more. He was glad he was not holding his hat in his hand because he knew he would have forgotten himself and thrown it up into the air.

      “Thank you, Mr. Galton,” he said, flushing tremendously. “I'd like to tell you how I appreciate your trusting me, but I don't know how. Thank you, sir.”

      When he appeared in Mrs. Bowse's dining-room that evening there was a glow of elation about him and a swing in his entry which attracted all eyes at once. For some unknown reason everybody looked at him, and, meeting his eyes, detected the presence of some new exultation.

      “Landed anything, T. T.?” Jim Bowles cried out. “You look it.”

      “Sure I look it,” Tembarom answered, taking his napkin out of its ring with an unconscious flourish. “I've landed the up-town society page—landed it, by gee!”

      A good-humored chorus of ejaculatory congratulation broke forth all round the table.

      “Good СКАЧАТЬ