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twg_000000047900 | stand it, maybe, if I only knew. If I only knew!" He sprang up, wheeling to face her across the couch. "You mean that?" "Harry!" "Well, then, since you're the one wants it, since you're forcing me to it--I'll end your suspense, Millie. Yes. Let me go, Millie. There's no use trying to keep life in something that's dead. Let | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047901 | me go." She stood looking at him, cheeks cased in palms, and her sagging eye-sockets seeming to darken, even as she stared. "You--her--" "It happens every day, Millie. Man and woman grow apart, that's all. Your own son is man enough to understand that. Nobody to blame. Just happens." "Harry--you mean--" "Aw, now, Millie, it's no easier for me to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047902 | say than for you to listen. I'd sooner cut off my right hand than put it up to you. Been putting it off all these months. If you hadn't nagged--led up to it, I'd have stuck it out somehow and made things miserable for both of us. It's just as well you brought it up. I--Life's life, Millie, and what | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047903 | you going to do about it?" A sound escaped her like the rising moan of a gale up a flue; then she sat down against trembling that seized her and sent ripples along the iridescent sequins. "Harry--Alma Zitelle--you mean--Harry?" "Now what's the use going into all that, Millie? What's the difference who I mean? It happened." "Harry, she--she's a common | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047904 | woman." "We won't discuss that." "She'll climb on you to what she wants higher up still. She won't bring you nothing but misery, Harry. I know what I'm saying; she'll--" "You're talking about something you know nothing about--you--" "I do. I do. You're hypnotized, Harry. It's her looks. Her dressing like a snake. Her hair. I can get mine fixed | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047905 | redder 'n hers, Harry. It takes a little time. Mine's only started to turn, Harry, is why it don't look right yet to you. This dress, it's from her own dressmaker. Harry--I promise you I can make myself like--her--I promise you, Harry--" "For God's sake, Millie, don't talk like--that! It's awful! What's those things got to do with it? It's--awful!" | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047906 | "They have, Harry. They have, only a man don't know it. She's a bad woman, Harry--she's got you fascinated with the way she dresses and does--" "We won't go into that." "We will. We will. I got the right. I don't have to let you go if I don't want to. I'm the mother of your son. I'm the wife | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047907 | that was good enough for you in the days when you needed her. I--" "You can't throw that up to me, Millie. I've squared that debt." "She'll throw you over, Harry, when I'll stand by you to the crack of doom. Take my word for it, Harry. O God! Harry, please take my word for it!" She closed her streaming | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047908 | eyes, clutching at his sleeve in a state beyond her control. "Won't you please? Please!" He toed the carpet. "I--I'd sooner be hit in the face, Millie, than--have this happen. Swear I would! But you see for yourself we--we can't go on this way." She sat for a moment, her stare widening above the palm clapped tightly against her mouth. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047909 | "Then you mean, Harry, you want--you want a--a--" "Now, now, Millie, try to keep hold of yourself. You're a sensible woman. You know I'll do the right thing by you to any amount. You'll have the boy till he's of age, and after that, too, just as much as you want him. He'll live right here in the flat with | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047910 | you. Money's no object, the way I'm going to fix things. Why, Millie, compared to how things are now--you're going to be a hundred per cent, better off--without me." She fell to rocking herself in the straight chair. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!" "Now, Millie, don't take it that way. I know that nine men out of ten would | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047911 | call me crazy to--to let go of a woman like you. But what's the use trying to keep life in something that's dead? It's because you're too good for me, Millie. I know that. You know that it's not because I think any less of you, or that I've forgot it was you who gave me my start. I'd pay | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047912 | you back ten times more if I could. I'm going to settle on you and the boy so that you're fixed for life. When he's of age, he comes into the firm half interest. There won't even be no publicity the way I'm going to fix things. Money talks, Millie. You'll get your decree without having to show your face | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047913 | to the public." "O God--he's got it all fixed--he's talked it all over with her! She--" "You--you wouldn't want to force something between you and me, Millie; that--that's just played out--" "I done it myself. I couldn't let well enough alone. I was ambitious for 'em. I dug my own grave. I done it myself. Done it myself!" "Now, Millie, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047914 | you mustn't look at things that way. Why, you're the kind of a little woman all you got to have is something to mother over. I'm going to see to it that the boy is right here at home with you all the time. He can give up those rooms at the college--you got as fine a son as there | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047915 | is in the country, Millie--I'm going to see to it that he is right here at home with you--" "O God--my boy--my little boy--my little boy!" "The days are over, Millie, when this kind of thing makes any difference. If it was--the mother--it might be different, but where the father is--to blame--it don't matter with the boy. Anyways, he's nearly | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047916 | of age. I tell you, Millie, if you'll just look at this thing sensible--" "I--Let me think, let--me--think." Her tears had quieted now to little dry moans that came with regularity. She was still swaying in her chair, eyes closed. "You'll get your decree, Millie, without--." "Don't talk," she said, a frown lowering over her closed eyes and pressing two | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047917 | fingers against each temple. "Don't talk." He walked to the window in a state of great perturbation, stood pulling inward his lips and staring down into the now brilliantly lighted flow of Broadway. Turned into the room with short, hasty strides, then back again. Came to confront her. "Aw, now, Millie--Millie--" Stood regarding her, chewing backward and forward along his | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047918 | fingertips. "You--you see for yourself, Millie, what's dead can't be made alive--now, can it?" She nodded, acquiescing, her lips bitterly wry. "My lawyer, Millie, he'll fix it, alimony and all, so you won't--" "O God!" "Suppose I just slip away easy, Millie, and let him fix up things so it'll be easiest for us both. Send the boy down to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047919 | see me to-morrow. He's old enough and got enough sense to have seen things coming. He knows. Suppose--I just slip out easy, Millie, for--for--both of us. Huh, Millie?" She nodded again, her lips pressed back against outburst. "If ever there was a good little woman, Millie, and one that deserves better than me, it's--" "Don't!" she cried. "Don't--don't--don't!" "I--" "Go--quick--now!" | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047920 | He hesitated, stood regarding her there in the chair, eyes squeezed closed like Iphigenia praying for death when exiled in Tauris. "Millie--I--" "Go!" she cried, the wail clinging to her lips. He felt round for his hat, his gaze obscured behind the shining glasses, tiptoed out round the archipelago of too much furniture, groped for the door-handle, turning it noiselessly, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047921 | and stood for the instant looking back at her bathed in the rosy light and seated upright like a sleeping Ariadne; opened the door to a slit that closed silently after him. She sat thus for three hours after, the wail still uppermost on the silence. At ten o'clock, with a gust that swayed the heavy drapes, her son burst | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047922 | in upon the room, his stride kicking the door before he opened it. Six feet in his gymnasium shoes, and with a ripple of muscle beneath the well-fitting, well-advertised Campus Coat for College Men, he had emerged from the three years into man's complete estate, which, at nineteen, is that patch of territory at youth's feet known as "the world." | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047923 | Gray eyed, his dark lashes long enough to threaten to curl, the lean line of his jaw squaring after the manner of America's fondest version of her manhood, he was already in danger of fond illusions and fond mommas. "Hello, mother!" he said, striding quickly through the chairs and over to where she sat. "Edwin!" "Thought I'd sleep home to-night, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047924 | mother." He kissed her lightly, perking up her shoulder butterflies of green sequins, and standing off to observe. "Got to hand it to my little mother for quiet and sumptuous el-e-gance! Some classy spangy-wangles!" He ran his hand against the lay of the sequins, absorbed in a conscious kind of gaiety. She moistened her lips, trying to smile. "Oh, boy," | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047925 | she said--"Edwin!"--holding to his forearm with fingers that tightened into it. "Mother," he said, pulling at his coat lapels with a squaring of shoulders, "you--you going to be a dead game little sport?" She was looking ahead now, abstraction growing in her white face. "Huh?" He fell into short strides up and down the length of the couch front. "I--I | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047926 | guess I might have mentioned it before, mother, but--but--oh, hang!--when a fellow's a senior it--it's all he can do to get home once in a while and--and--what's the use talking about a thing anyway before it breaks right, and--well, everybody knows it's up to us college fellows--college men--to lead the others and show our country what we're made of now | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047927 | that she needs us--eh, little dressed-up mother?" She looked up at him with the tremulous smile still trying to break through. "My boy can mix with the best of 'em." "That's not what I mean, mother." "You got to be twice to me what you been, darling--twice to me. Listen, darling. I--Oh, my God!" She was beating softly against his | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047928 | hand held in hers, her voice rising again, and her tears. "Listen, darling--" "Now, mother, don't go into a spell. The war is going to help you out on these lonesome fits, mother. Like Slawson put it to-day in Integral Calculus Four, war reduces the personal equation to its lowest terms--it's a matter of--." "I need you now, Edwin--O God! | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047929 | how I need you! There never was a minute in all these months since you've grown to understand how--it is between your father and me that I needed you so much--" "Mother, you mustn't make it harder for me to--tell you what I--" "I think maybe something has happened to me, Edwin. I can feel myself breathe all over--it's like | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047930 | I'm outside of myself somewhere--" "It's nervousness, mother. You ought to get out more. I'm going to get you some war-work to do, mother, that 'll make you forget yourself. Service is what counts these days!" "Edwin, it's come--he's leaving me--it--" "Speaking of service, I--I guess I might have mentioned it before, mother, but--but--when war was declared the other day, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047931 | a--a bunch of us fellows volunteered for--for the university unit to France, and--well, I'm accepted, mother--to go. The lists went up to-night. I'm one of the twenty picked fellows." "France?" "We sail for Bordeaux for ambulance service the twentieth, mother. I was the fourth accepted with my qualifications--driving my own car and--and physical fitness. I'm going to France, mother, among | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047932 | the first to do my bit. I know a fellow got over there before we were in the war and worked himself into the air-fleet. That's what I want, mother, air service! They're giving us fellows credit for our senior year just the same. Bob Vandaventer and Clarence Unger and some of the fellows like that are in the crowd. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047933 | Are you a dead-game sport, little mother, and not going to make a fuss--" "I--don't know. What--is--it--I--" "Your son at the front, mother, helping to make the world a safer place for democracy. Does a little mother with something like that to bank on have time to be miserable over family rows? You're going to knit while I'm gone. The | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047934 | busiest little mother a fellow ever had, doing her bit for her country! There's signs up all over the girls' campus: 'A million soldiers "out there" are needing wool jackets and chest-protectors. How many will you take care of?' You're going to be the busiest little mother a fellow ever had. You're going to stop making a fuss over me | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047935 | and begin to make a fuss over your country. We're going into service, mother!" "Don't leave me, Edwin! Baby darling, don't leave me! I'm alone! I'm afraid." "There, there, little mother," he said, patting at her and blinking, "I--Why--why, there's men come back from every war, and plenty of them. Good Lord! just because a fellow goes to the front, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047936 | he--" "I got nothing left. Everything I've worked for has slipped through my life like sand through a sieve. My hands are empty. I've lost your father on the success I slaved for. I'm losing my boy on the fine ideas and college education I've slaved for. I--Don't leave me, Edwin. I'm afraid--Don't--" "Mother--I--Don't be cut up about it. I--" | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047937 | "Why should I give to this war? I ain't a fine woman with the fine ideas you learn at college. I ask so little of life--just some one who needs me, some one to do for. I 'ain't got any fine ideas about a son at war. Why should I give to what they're fighting for on the other side | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047938 | of the ocean? Don't ask me to give up my boy to what they're fighting for in a country I've never seen--my little boy I raised--my all I've got--my life! No! No!" "It's the women like you, mother--with guts--with grit--that send their sons to war." "I 'ain't got grit!" "You're going to have your hands so full, little mother, taking | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047939 | care of the Army and Navy, keeping their feet dry and their chests warm, that before you know it you'll be down at the pier some fine day watching us fellows come home from victory." "No--no--no!" "You're going to coddle the whole fighting front, making 'em sweaters and aviation sets out of a whole ton of wool I'm going to | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047940 | lay in the house for you. Time's going to fly for my little mother." "I'll kill myself first!" "You wouldn't have me a quitter, little mother. You wouldn't have the other fellows in my crowd at college go out and do what I haven't got the guts to do. You want me to hold up my head with the best | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047941 | of 'em." "I don't want nothing but my boy! I--" "Us college men got to be the first to show that the fighting backbone of the country is where it belongs. If us fellows with education don't set the example, what can we expect from the other fellows? Don't ask me to be a quitter, mother. I couldn't! I wouldn't! | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047942 | My country needs us, mother--you and me--" "Edwin! Edwin!" "Attention, little mother--stand!" She lay back her head, laughing, crying, sobbing, choking. "O God--take him and bring him back--to me!" On a day when sky and water were so identically blue that they met in perfect horizon, the S. S. _Rowena_, sleek-flanked, mounted fore and aft with a pair of black | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047943 | guns that lifted snouts slightly to the impeccable blue, slipped quietly, and without even a newspaper sailing-announcement into a frivolous midstream that kicked up little lace edged wavelets, undulating flounces of them. A blur of faces rose above deck-rails, faces that, looking back, receded finally. The last flag and the last kerchief became vapor. Against the pier-edge, frantically, even perilously | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047944 | forward, her small flag thrust desperately beyond the rail, Mrs. Ross, who had lost a saving sense of time and place, leaned after that ship receding in majesty, long after it had curved from view. The crowd, not a dry-eyed one, women in spite of themselves with lips whitening, men grim with pride and an innermost bleeding, sagged suddenly, thinning | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047945 | and trickling back into the great, impersonal maw of the city. Apart from the rush of the exodus, a youth remained at the rail, gazing out and quivering for the smell of war. Finally, he too, turned back reluctantly. Now only Mrs. Ross. An hour she stood there, a solitary figure at the rail, holding to her large black hat, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047946 | her skirts whipped to her body and snapping forward in the breeze. The sun struck off points from the water, animating it with a jewel-dance. It found out in a flash the diamond-and-sapphire top to her gold-mesh hand-bag, hoppity-skippiting from facet to facet. "My boy--my little boy!" A pair of dock-hands, wiping their hands on cotton-waste, came after a while | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047947 | to the door of the pier-house to observe and comment. Conscious of that observation, she moved then through the great dank sheds in and among the bales and boxes, down a flight of stairs and out to the cobbled street. Her motor-car, the last at the entrance, stood off at a slant, the chauffeur lopping slightly and dozing, his face | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047948 | scarcely above the steering-wheel. She passed him with unnecessary stealth, her heels occasionally wedging between the cobbles and jerking her up. Two hours she walked thus, invariably next to the water's edge or in the first street running parallel to it. Truck-drivers gazed at and sang after her. Deck- and dock-hands, stretched out in the first sun of spring, opened | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047949 | their eyes to her passing, often staring after her under lazy lids. Behind a drawn veil her lips were moving, but inaudibly now. Motor-trucks, blocks of them, painted the gray of war, stood waiting shipment, engines ready to throb into no telling what mire. Once a van of knitted stuffs, always the gray, corded and bound into bales, rumbled by, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047950 | close enough to graze and send her stumbling back. She stood for a moment watching it lumber up alongside a dock. It was dusk when she emerged from the rather sinister end of West Street into Battery Park, receding in a gracious new-green curve from the water. Tier after tier of lights had begun to prick out in the back-drop | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047951 | of skyscraping office-buildings. The little park, after the six-o'clock stampede, settled back into a sort of lamplit quiet, dark figures, the dregs of a city day, here and there on its benches. The back-drop of office-lights began to blink out then, all except the tallest tower in the world, rising in the glory of its own spotlight into a rococo | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047952 | pinnacle of man's accomplishment. Strolling the edge of that park so close to the water that she could hear it seethe in the receding, a policeman finally took to following Mrs. Ross, his measured tread behind hers, his night-stick rapping out every so often. She found out a bench then, and never out of his view, sat looking out across | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047953 | the infinitude of blackness to where the bay so casually meets the sea. Night dampness had sent her shivering, the plumage of her hat, the ferny feathers of the bird-of-paradise, drooping almost grotesquely over the brim. A small detachment of Boy Scouts, sturdy with an enormous sense of uniform and valor, marched through the asphalt alleys of the park with | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047954 | trained, small-footed, regimental precision--small boys with clean, lifted faces. A fife and drum came up the road. Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat! High over the water a light had come out--Liberty's high-flung torch. Watching it, and quickened by the fife and drum to an erect sitting posture, Mrs. Ross slid forward on her bench, lips opening. The policeman standing off, rapped twice, and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047955 | when she rose, almost running toward the lights of the Elevated station, followed. Within her apartment on upper Broadway, not even a hall light burned when she let herself in with her key. At the remote end of the aisle of blackness a slit of yellow showed beneath the door, behind it the babble of servants' voices. She entered with | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047956 | a stealth that was well under cover of those voices, groping into the first door at her right, feeling round for the wall key, switching the old rose-and-gold room into immediate light. Stood for a moment, her plumage drooping damply to her shoulders, blue foulard dress snagged in two places, her gold mesh bag with the sapphire-and-diamond top hanging low | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047957 | from the crook of her little finger. A clock ticked with almost an echo into the rather vast silence. She entered finally, sidling in among the chairs. A great mound of gray yarn, uncut skein after uncut skein of it, rose off the brocade divan, more of them piled in systematic pyramids on three chairs. She dropped at sight of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047958 | it to the floor beside the couch, burying her face in its fluff, grasping it in handfuls, writhing into it. Surges of merciful sobs came sweeping through and through her. After a while, with a pair of long amber-colored needles, she fell to knitting with a fast, even furious ambidexterity, her mouth pursing up with a driving intensity, her boring | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047959 | gaze so concentrated on the thing in hand that her eyes seemed to cross. Dawn broke upon her there, her hat still cockily awry, tears dried in a vitrified gleaming down her cheeks. Beneath her flying fingers, a sleeveless waistcoat was taking shape, a soldier's inner jacket against the dam of trenches. At sunup it lay completed, spread out as | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047960 | if the first of a pile. The first noises of the city began to rise remotely. A bell pealed off somewhere. Day began to raise its conglomerate voice. On her knees beside the couch there, the second waistcoat was already taking shape beneath the cocksure needles. The old pinkly moist look had come out in her face. One million boys | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047961 | "out there" were needing chest-protectors! III ICE-WATER, PL--! When the two sides of every story are told, Henry VIII. may establish an alibi or two, Shylock and the public-school system meet over and melt that too, too solid pound of flesh, and Xantippe, herself the sturdier man than Socrates, give ready, lie to what is called the shrew in her. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047962 | Landladies, whole black-bombazine generations of them--oh, so long unheard!--may rise in one Indictment of the Boarder: The scarred bureau-front and match-scratched wall-paper; the empty trunk nailed to the floor in security for the unpaid bill; cigarette-burnt sheets and the terror of sudden fire; the silent newcomer in the third floor back hustled out one night in handcuffs; the day-long sobs | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047963 | of the blond girl so suddenly terrified of life-about-to-be and wringing her ringless hands in the fourth-floor hall-room; the smell of escaping gas and the tightly packed keyhole; the unsuspected flutes that lurk in boarders' trunks; towels, that querulous and endless paean of the lodger; the high cost of liver and dried peaches, of canned corn and round steak! Tired | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047964 | bombazine procession, wrapped in the greasy odors of years of carpet-sweeping and emptying slops, airing the gassy slit of room after the coroner; and padding from floor to floor on a mission of towels and towels and towels! Sometimes climbing from floor to floor, a still warm supply of them looped over one arm, Mrs. Kaufman, who wore bombazine, but | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047965 | unspotted and with crisp net frills at the throat, and upon whose soft-looking face the years had written their chirography in invisible ink, would sit suddenly, there in the narrow gloom of her halls, head against the balustrade. Oftener than not the Katz boy from the third floor front would come lickety-clapping down the stairs and past her, jumping the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047966 | last four steps of each flight. "Irving, quit your noise in the hall." "Aw!" "Ain't you ashamed, a big boy like you, and Mrs. Suss with her neuralgia?" "Aw!"--the slam of a door clipping off this insolence. After a while she would resume her climb. And yet in Mrs. Kaufman's private boarding-house in West Eighty-ninth Street, one of a breastwork | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047967 | of brownstone fronts, lined up stoop for stoop, story for story, and ash-can for ash-can, there were few enough greasy odors except upon the weekly occasion of Monday's boiled dinner; and, whatever the status of liver and dried peaches, canned corn and round steak, her menus remained static--so static that in the gas-lighted basement dining-room and at a remote end | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047968 | of the long, well-surrounded table Mrs. Katz, with her napkin tucked well under her third chin, turned _sotto_ from the protruding husband at her right to her left neighbor, shielding her remark with her hand. "Am I right, Mrs. Finshriber? I just said to my husband in the five years we been here she should just give us once a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047969 | change from Friday-night lamb and noodles." "Say, you should complain yet! With me it's six and a half years day after to-morrow, Easter Day, since I asked myself that question first." "Even my Irving says to me to-night up in the room; jumping up and down on the hearth like he had four legs--" "I heard him, Mrs. Katz, on | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047970 | my ceiling like he had eight legs." "'Mamma,' he says, 'guess why I feel like saying "Baa."'" "Saying what?" "Sheep talk, Mrs. Finshriber. B-a-a, like a sheep goes." "Oh!" "'Cause I got so many Friday nights' lamb in me, mamma,' he said. Quick like a flash that child is." Mrs. Finshriber dipped her head and her glance, all her drooping | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047971 | features pulled even farther down at their corners. "I ain't the one to complain, Mrs. Katz, and I always say, when you come right down to it maybe Mrs. Kaufman's house is as good as the next one, but--" "I wish, though, Mrs. Finshriber, you would hear what Mrs. Spritz says at her boarding-house they get for breakfast: fried--" "You | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047972 | can imagine, Mrs. Katz, since my poor husband's death, how much appetite I got left; but I say, Mrs. Katz, just for the principle of the thing, it would not hurt once if Mrs. Kaufman could give somebody else besides her own daughter and Vetsburg the white meat from everything, wouldn't it?" "It's a shame before the boarders! She knows, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047973 | Mrs. Pinshriber, how my husband likes breast from the chicken. You think once he gets it? No. I always tell him, not 'til chickens come doublebreasted like overcoats can he get it in this house, with Vetsburg such a star boarder." "Last night's chicken, let me tell you, I don't wish it to a dog! Such a piece of dark | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047974 | meat with gizzard I had to swallow." Mrs. Katz adjusted with greater security the expanse of white napkin across her ample bosom. Gold rings and a quarter-inch marriage band flashed in and out among the litter of small tub-shaped dishes surrounding her, and a pouncing fork of short, sure stab. "Right away my husband gets mad when I say the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047975 | same thing. 'When we don't like it we should move,' he says." "Like moving is so easy, if you got two chairs and a hair mattress to take with you. But I always say, Mrs. Katz, I don't blame Mrs. Kaufman herself for what goes on; there's _one_ good woman if there ever was one!" "They don't come any better | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047976 | or any better looking, my husband always says. 'S-ay,' I tell him, 'she can stand her good looks.'" "It's that big-ideaed daughter who's to blame. Did you see her new white spats to-night?" Right away the minute they come out she has to have 'em. I'm only surprised she 'ain't got one of them red hats from Gimp's what is | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047977 | all the fad. Believe me, if not for such ideas, her mother could afford something better as succotash for us for supper." "It's a shame, let me tell you, that a woman like Mrs. Kaufman can't see for herself such things. God forbid I should ever be so blind to my Irving. I tell you that Ruby has got it | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047978 | more like a queen than a boarding-housekeeper's daughter. Spats, yet!" "Rich girls could be glad to have it always so good." "I don't say nothing how her mother treats Vetsburg, her oldest boarder, and for what he pays for that second floor front and no lunches she can afford to cater a little; but that such a girl shouldn't be | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047979 | made to take up a little stenography or help with the housework!" "S-ay, when that girl even turns a hand, pale like a ghost her mother gets." "How girls are raised nowadays, even the poor ones!" "I ain't the one to complain, Mrs. Katz, but just look down there, that red stuff." "Where?" "Ain't it cranberry between Ruby and Vetsburg?" | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047980 | "Yes, yes, and look such a dish of it!" "Is it right extras should be allowed to be brought on a table like this where fourteen other boarders got to let their mouth water and look at it?" "You think it don't hurt like a knife! For myself I don't mind, but my Irving! How that child loves 'em, and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047981 | he should got to sit at the same table without cranberries." From the head of the table the flashing implements of carving held in askance for stroke, her lips lifted to a smile and a simulation of interest for display of further carnivorous appetites, Mrs. Kaufman passed her nod from one to the other. "Miss Arndt, little more? No? Mr. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047982 | Krakower? Gravy? Mrs. Suss? Mr. Suss? So! Simon? Mr. Schloss? Miss Horowitz? Mr. Vetsburg, let me give you this little tender--No? Then, Ruby, here let mama give you just a little more--" "No, no, mama, please!" She caught at the hovering wrist to spare the descent of the knife. By one of those rare atavisms by which a poet can | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047983 | be bred of a peasant or peasant be begot of poet, Miss Ruby Kaufman, who was born in Newark, posthumous, to a terrified little parent with a black ribbon at the throat of her gown, had brought with her from no telling where the sultry eyes and tropical-turned skin of spice-kissed winds. The corpuscles of a shah might have been | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047984 | running in the blood of her, yet Simon Kaufman, and Simon Kaufman's father before him, had sold wool remnants to cap-factories on commission. "Ruby, you don't eat enough to keep a bird alive. Ain't it a shame, Mr. Vetsburg, a girl should be so dainty?" Mr. Meyer Vetsburg cast a beetling glance down upon Miss Kaufman, there so small beside | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047985 | him, and tinked peremptorily against her plate three times with his fork. "Eat, young lady, like your mama wants you should, or, by golly! I'll string you up for my watch-fob--not, Mrs. Kaufman?" A smile lay under Mr. Vetsburg's gray-and-black mustache. Gray were his eyes, too, and his suit, a comfortable baggy suit with the slouch of the wearer impressed | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047986 | into it, the coat hiking center back, the pocket-flaps half in, half out, and the knees sagging out of press. "That's right, Mr. Vetsburg, you should scold her when she don't eat." Above the black-bombazine basque, so pleasantly relieved at the throat by a V of fresh white net, a wave of color moved up Mrs. Kaufman's face into her | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047987 | architectural coiffure, the very black and very coarse skein of her hair wound into a large loose mound directly atop her head and pierced there with a ball-topped comb of another decade. "I always say, Mr. Vetsburg, she minds you before she minds anybody else in the world." "Ma," said Miss Kaufman, close upon that remark, "some succotash, please." From | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047988 | her vantage down-table, Mrs. Katz leaned a bit forward from the line. "Look, Mrs. Finshriber, how for a woman her age she snaps her black eyes at him. It ain't hard to guess when a woman's got a marriageable daughter--not?" "You can take it from me she'll get him for her Ruby yet! And take it from me, too, almost | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047989 | any girl I know, much less Ruby Kaufman, could do worse as get Meyer Vetsburg." "S-say, I wish it to her to get him. For why once in a while shouldn't a poor girl get a rich man except in books and choruses?" "Believe me, a girl like Ruby can manage what she wants. Take it from me, she's got | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047990 | it behind her ears." "I should say so." "Without it she couldn't get in with such a crowd of rich girls like she does. I got it from Mrs. Abrams in the Arline Apartments how every week she plays five hundred with Nathan Shapiro's daughter." "No! Shapiro & Stein?" "And yesterday at matine in she comes with a box of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047991 | candy and laughing with that Rifkin girl! How she gets in with such swell girls, I don't know, but there ain't a nice Saturday afternoon I don't see that girl walking on Fifth Avenue with just such a crowd of fine-dressed girls, all with their noses powdered so white and their hats so little and stylish." "I wouldn't be surprised | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047992 | if her mother don't send her down to Atlantic City over Easter again if Vetsburg goes. Every holiday she has to go lately like it was coming to her." "Say, between you and me, I don't put it past her it's that Markovitch boy down there she's after. Ray Klein saw 'em on the boardwalk once together, and she says | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047993 | it's a shame for the people how they sat so close in a rolling-chair." "I wouldn't be surprised she's fresh with the boys, but, believe me, if she gets the uncle she don't take the nephew!" "Say, a clerk in his own father's hotel like the Markovitches got in Atlantic City ain't no crime." "Her mother has got bigger thoughts | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047994 | for her than that. For why I guess she thinks her daughter should take the nephew when maybe she can get the uncle herself. Nowadays it ain't nothing no more that girls marry twice their own age." "I always say I can tell when Leo Markovitch comes down, by the way her mother's face gets long and the daughter's gets | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047995 | short." "Can you blame her? Leo Markovitch, with all his monograms on his shirt-sleeves and such black rims on his glasses, ain't the Rosenthal Vetsburg Hosiery Company, not by a long shot! There ain't a store in this town you ask for the No Hole Guaranteed Stocking, right away they don't show it to you. Just for fun always I | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047996 | ask." "Cornstarch pudding! Irving, stop making that noise at Mrs. Kaufman! Little boys should be seen and not heard even at cornstarch pudding." "_Gott_! Wouldn't you think, Mrs. Katz, how Mrs. Kaufman knows how I hate desserts that wabble, a little something extra she could give me." "How she plays favorite, it's a shame. I wish you'd look, too, Mrs. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047997 | Finshriber, how Flora Proskauer carries away from the table her glass of milk with slice bread on top. I tell you it don't give tune to a house the boarders should carry away from the table like that. Irving, come and take with you that extra piece cake. Just so much board we pay as Flora Proskauer." The line about | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047998 | the table broke suddenly, attended with a scraping of chairs and after-dinner chirrupings attended with toothpicks. A blowsy maid strained herself immediately across the strewn table and cloying lamb platter, and turned off two of the three gas jets. In the yellow gloom, the odors of food permeating it, they filed out and up the dim lit stairs into dim-lit | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000047999 | halls, the line of conversation and short laughter drifting after. A door slammed. Then another. Irving Katz leaped from his third floor threshold to the front hearth, quaking three layers of chandeliers. From Morris Krakower's fourth floor back the tune of a flute began to wind down the stairs. Out of her just-closed door Mrs. Finshriber poked a frizzled gray | 60 | gutenberg |
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