Irish -- United States -- Fiction; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Runaway wives -- Fiction
When it was all over and the basket empty, he jumped down from the
platform, his fat back bent in excitement, tossed aside the rug, lifted
the big box, placed it beside the gilt throne, and raised his puffy
hands to command attention: “Now listen, everybody! I got someting to
say. Beesvings don't have all dis to herselluf. Now it is my turn. Come
up closer so I get hold of you. Vait, and I git back on de platform.
Here, you olt frent of mine, Dan Porterfield, here is a new
butcher-knife sharpener for you, to sharpen your knives on ven you cuts
dem bifsteaks. And, Heffern, come close; here is a silver-plated skimmer
for dot cream you make, and a pig fan for your daughter. And Polly
Codman--git out of de way dere, and let Polly Codman come up!--here,
Polly, is a pair of gloves for you and a muffler for Codman, and here is
more gloves and neckties and--I got a lot more; I didn't got much time
and I bought dem all in a hurry--and dey are all from me and Masie and
don't you forgit dot. I ain't never been so happy as I am to-night,
and you vas awful good to come and see my little girl dot don't got no
mudder. And you must all tank Mr. O'Day for de great help he vas. Now
dot's all I got to say.”
He drew his hand across his eyes, made an awkward bow, and sat down.
Everybody gasped in amazement. Many of them had known him for years,
ever since he moved into “The Avenue”--twenty years, at least--but
nobody had ever seen him as he was to-night. That he had in his intended
generosity overlooked half of his friends made no difference. Those who
received something showed it for weeks afterward to everybody who came.
Those who had nothing forgave him in their delight over the good-will
he had shown to the others. Even Felix, who had been watching him soften
and thaw out under the warmth of the child's happiness, and who thought
he knew the man and his nature, was astounded, and showed it by grasping
for the first time his employer's hand, looking him in the eyes as he
said, “I owe you an apology, sir,” a proceeding Otto often pondered
over, its meaning wholly escaping him.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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