Partners Read online

  "Oh! I wondered!" said the unsympathetic voice of the neighbor. "I thought it wasn't very considerate of you not coming back to help poor Mrs. Baker off when she's done so much for you all these months. I don't see what right they had to keep you. You see, your not being here made a lot of trouble. The movers brought down all your things and got them in the van before Mrs. Baker thought to tell them that they weren't hers. They just carried your coat out, dragging the fur collar on the steps, and chucked it in the van. And it would have been there yet if I hadn't seen them carrying it across the sidewalk and dumping it in between the sideboard and table, like it was a cushion. I called right out to them that that was yours, and they brought it back, and then Mrs. Baker spoke to them and made them bring your best hat back. I recognized it, of course, because I've seen you go out on Sunday wearing it. I guess we got everything. Poor Mrs. Baker wasn't able to go out and climb into the van to see, but I went myself, and I took all your things and brought them in my house to keep for you. Mrs. Baker had the man bring your trunk over, too, and she said they only charged fifty cents, and you could pay me if you wanted to."

  "Pay! For having my trunk taken into your house when I was coming in a little while to take it away myself in a taxi? That doesn't seem right, Mrs. Bartlett, does it? Mrs. Baker knew I had a key. I don't see why she didn't telephone me. I would have come right back and taken care of my own things."

  "Why, the man came the first thing this morning and disconnected the telephone. She couldn't. You see, it's the end of the month and she didn't want to pay for next month."

  "Oh!" said Dale with a kind of hopeless tone in her voice. "Well, I guess I'd better come in and see if all my things are there. I certainly wouldn't like to lose any of them, and there are some of them that I prize very much."

  "Oh, well, I guess you'll find them all there. I'm sure we haven't done anything to them. I certainly went out of my way to keep the mover from carrying them all off to Ohio. But perhaps I should have minded my own business. You never get any thanks when you go out of your way to oblige."

  "Oh! I'm sorry, Mrs. Bartlett. I didn't mean to be ungrateful. I am sure I thank you very much for looking after my things. Only, you see, I was startled when I didn't find them where I left them."

  With her chin up offendedly Mrs. Bartlett led the way over to her house and pointed to a chair in her front room on which reposed Dale's best hat with her winter coat dumped on the top of it in a heap, and a small overnight bag dropped on top of that. On another chair nearby was her good dress lying in wrinkles, with a collection of articles from her bureau in a pile atop.

  "Oh!" she groaned softly and then set swiftly to work getting things to rights.

  "Well! Are they all there?" asked the offended Mrs. Bartlett.

  Dale was just shaking the wrinkles out of her best dress and brushing off the dust where the dress had trailed across the floor. She didn't answer at once.

  "Is anything missing?" hissed the lady impatiently.

  "Why, I don't know yet, Mrs. Bartlett. But of course you can't help it if there is. I'm just sorry I didn't know and get home in time to save you from taking so much trouble."

  "Oh, I'm always glad to be helpful," said the woman defiantly.

  Dale opened her suitcase and put in the garments she had just folded, then slipped the brushes and comb and other toiletry articles in place in her overnight bag, every movement she made watched scrupulously by the overseer.

  "I wonder--did you happen to see my umbrella, Mrs. Bartlett?" Dale cast a quick look about.

  "No, I didn't see any umbrella," said the woman. "Except Mrs. Baker's umbrella. She brought that over here when she stepped in to say good-bye."

  "Oh," said Dale with relief in her voice. "There it is, standing in your hall rack."

  "What?" said Mrs. Bartlett suspiciously. "Why, no, you're mistaken! That's Mrs. Baker's umbrella! She must have stood it there for a minute when she went to shake hands. Now I remember, I saw her set it there!"

  "No, Mrs. Bartlett, that's my umbrella. She must have brought it over for me."

  The small eyes gleamed at her maliciously.

  "That's not your umbrella!" snapped the woman. It's Mrs. Baker's umbrella."

  "Open it, Mrs. Bartlett. You'll find my name on the handle inside," said Dale calmly, taking a deep breath to keep her spirit in leash.

  "I don't need to open it!" snapped Mrs. Bartlett. "I guess I know what I'm talking about, and you can't put anything like that over on me!"

  Dale gave her a wide-eyed look of astonishment.

  "I really don't understand you, Mrs. Bartlett, but if you don't care to open the umbrella I'll open it myself. It is just as well for you to see that I am telling the truth."

  And then before the irate woman realized what she was doing, Dale unfurled the umbrella and raised it wide open, pointing to her name in clear, round letters painted halfway up the rod.

  "There!" she said, turning so that the woman could see it.

  But Mrs. Bartlett suddenly screamed out.

  "Put that umbrella down at once!" she yelled. "Don't you know it's terribly bad luck to open an umbrella in the house? Don't you know it's a sign somebody in that house will die before the year is up, if you open an umbrella in the house?"

  Dale looked at her in amazement and then burst into a ripple of laughter.

  "How could a lifted umbrella in a house possibly have anything to do with death?" she asked, looking at Mrs. Bartlett with wonder.

  "Put it down, I tell you!" screamed the woman. "Shut it this instant!" Mrs. Bartlett was fairly frantic. "Shut it quick! You've no right to come in here and bring death on my house!"

  Dale closed the umbrella abruptly.

  "But, my dear, what in the world do you mean? I haven't brought anything on your house. How could an umbrella have anything to do with death?"

  The woman was almost in tears from fright.

  "I don't know!" she cried, wringing her hands. "But I know it's true! Everybody knows it. I've heard it ever since I was a little child. My uncle opened his wet umbrella and stood it to dry in the kitchen the day my Aunt Gabrielle died, and when my mother found it she shut it down quick, and she said, 'Oh John, what have you done! Now Gabrielle's going ta die!' She shut it down quick, but that night my Aunt Gabrielle died! And I've always known it. It's an old saying. You mustn't ever open an umbrella in the house, not break a mirror, because somebody's sure to die."

  "Oh, Mrs. Bartlett!" said Dale aghast. "Why, that's nothing but superstition! None of that could be true. It's against reason! I've opened umbrellas plenty of times in the house, and we've had broken mirrors, too."

  "Well, your mother's dead, isn't she? And your father, too, I suppose!"

  "But, Mrs. Bartlett, you don't suppose God has to wait till somebody opens an umbrella in the house, or breaks a mirror, before He can send for one of His children to come home to heaven, do you?"

  "I don't know anything about that, but I think you're awfully presumptive to be so sure your parents were God's children, and got to heaven when they died! I don't suppose they were any better than the general run of folks, even if they were your parents. However, I wish you'd take your things and get out before you do any more damage in my house! Now I shan't have a bit of peace till this year is out! I'm glad it's so near Christmas. I shan't sleep a wink tonight thinking of that raised umbrella."

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Bartlett. I'll be going at once. Could you please tell me where my trunk is?"

  "It's out there at the back end of the hall," said the indignant woman. "But I don't see how you're going to carry that! It took a man to carry it in. And you needn't go off and think you can come back again in a little while to get it, for I'm going out and I don't know when I'm coming back. If my friend invites me to stay to dinner I may stay. I can't come running home just to wait on you! I've wasted half my day on you as it is, watching for you to come home."

  "I'm sorry!" said Dale with gentle dignity. "Well, then, could I telephone fo
r a taxi?"

  "I s'pose you can!" said the woman grudgingly.

  Dale turned to the telephone and called for a taxi at once, and then carefully laid a fifty-cent piece and a nickel on the telephone table.

  "There's the money for the trunk, and for the phone call," she said quietly. "Thank you. Now, I'll put these things in the trunk!"

  She took out her little bunch of keys and they jingled as she walked into the back hall, her arms full of garments.

  She put them all carefully into her trunk, including the jacket and cap she had been wearing, and then came back and put on her coat and hat from Mrs. Bartlett's big chair. By that time the taxi driver was outside.

  "Good-bye, Mrs. Bartlett," said Dale as she stepped to the door. "I'm sorry I've troubled you so much. Thank you for what you've done for me!" And then she summoned the taxi driver to get her trunk, and gathering up her bags she followed him out to the cab, thankful in her heart to be out and away from it all.

  But as she climbed into the taxi it came to her that she had nowhere to go, and the driver would want to know where to take her. What was she going to do next?

  Chapter 2

  "Where to, lady?" asked the taxi man as he swung himself into his seat and turned back to get his direction.

  "Just a minute," said Dale, frantically searching through her handbag for a clipping she had taken from the paper that morning. There had been two or three likely advertisements. She would just have to go and try one or two of them. She gave the address of the first one that had attracted her and wondered what it would be like. She knew very little about the streets of this great city in which she had been living for nearly eight months. The Bakers hadn't given her time to go anywhere except back and forth from their house to the office. Every spare minute had been occupied. They had certainly got their money's worth out of Dale Hathaway.

  But when she drew up at the address given and noted the fine old brownstone fronts, and the neat appearance of the whole street, her heart sank. This would be a lovely neighborhood in which to live, but it would be far beyond her purse. She had set her limit, and she must not go over it.

  They tried several others, but found they had all been rented.

  The last in the newspaper list was a sordid gloomy house in a dirty street, with hoards of children screaming on the doorsteps, and a drunken man leering at one corner.

  "No!" said Dale. "No, I couldn't come here! It looks dreadful!"

  She hadn't intended to speak aloud, not to call the attention of her driver to her troubles, but she had spoken and he could not help hearing.

  "No, lady, this ain't no place for the likes of yous! What ya huntin', lady! Mebbe I cud he'p ya. Is it a house yer wantin'?"

  "Oh, no, just a room in a plain rooming house where it would be quiet and respectable, and not cost too much. That first house was wonderful, but the price was way more than I could afford."

  "Well, thur ain't sa many!" mused the driver. "But I might know of one. I took a party to the station from back here in the twenty-three hundreds. Her room might do. It might be too small for ye, though, but it was only up one flight. I went up ta get her trunk, an' I give it the once-over as I passed out. It ain't so fancy, but I shouldn't think it would come so high as some others. I cud take ya ta see it, though o'course it might be rented by now. It was 'leven o'clock this mornin' when she left it."

  "Oh," said Dale, "that sounds good. I'd like to see it. Is it a respectable neighborhood? I wouldn't want to go anywhere where I would be afraid to come home at night."

  "Course ya wouldn't, lady. An' I ain't takin' ya ta any such a place as that. Sure, it's respectable. There's a church next door, an' that usually makes a neighborhood a little tastier, ya know. Right down this way. It ain't sa fur! I'll show ya!"

  He turned the taxi down a quiet street. Rows and rows of what used to be fine old houses, in a neighborhood that wasn't fashionable now. It wasn't far from the business section. That would be all the more desirable for Dale.

  But her heart sank as she got out and went in. Likely it would be too much. Oh, if it only would be a place where she could afford to stay! If she could just have her things brought in and lock her door and lie down and sleep a little while, before she had to get up and go on hunting for a job. She was so tired and bewildered!

  As she went up the steps the door opened and a young man came out and hurried down the street. She wondered if he was a roomer there. He had a nice, pleasant face, though preoccupied. He wasn't noticing her, and that made her feel more comfortable. She wouldn't like to be in a house where the people were unpleasantly friendly. However, in a rooming house one couldn't select all the fellow-lodgers. Also it might be this man was only a salesman, or just stopping at the door on business. But he looked sensible, and furnished a bit of background to build a faint hope upon. If this only turned out to be the right kind of place!

  But the room, when she had climbed the steep stair, which was really the height of two flights, wasn't so grand as she had hoped. It was at the back of the house overlooking a dreary alley of ash barrels, with a view of a multiplicity of untidy back doors from the next street. However, what was a view? A curtain would shut it out. And she would mostly be asleep when she stayed in her room. A more serious difficulty developed when she discovered that there was no radiator. But there was an oil stove that the landlady declared "het up the room real well" and "didn't smoke." She suggested also that she wouldn't say anything if the young lady wanted to make coffee "of a morning" on it. As the price was within her means, that settled it. If she could get her own breakfasts it would save quite a little.

  So she hurried down to her taxi driver and presently saw her steamer trunk traveling up on his stout shoulder.

  When the taxi had rattled away down the street, Dale felt as if she had parted with her last friend. He had been such a cheerful, friendly soul, and he really had helped her out of a predicament. She looked down at the soiled card he had left in her hand as he grinned farewell saying:

  "Anytime ya need me just call that number, an' I'll be comin' as fast as I can ta serve ya."

  An investigating glance out the window showed that her cheap room was a recent addition built out over the back kitchen of an old house. Further inspection revealed no closet in the room, only a shelf with a calico curtain nailed around it, and some hooks driven into the wall upon which to hang her garments. The only light was a single electric bulb, bald and unshaded, hanging on a cord from the ceiling. Well, that didn't matter. She could easily manage a cheap little lamp shade.

  There was no running water in the room, only a frail old-fashioned washstand with rods across the arms for towel racks. The landlady had pointed to the bathroom down the hall. There was a tin basin and water pitcher on the washstand. It was all more primitive than one would expect in a city house, but hence the cheapness, and she looked about the bleak place and tried to tell herself that she was fortunate to get it. There were two chairs, cane-seated, rather shackly, a cot bed, a small table known in former days as a "stand," and an old chest of drawers with a crazy mirror hanging over them. Dale looked into the mirror, shrugged her shoulders at the image of herself she saw there, laughed a weak little tired laugh and turned away. Well, at least she was placed somewhere in probable safety and comparative decency for the night. If she didn't like it by morning she would have a whole day to find some other place, even if she had to forfeit the small deposit she had made on the room.

  Perhaps she had better go out and purchase a coffeepot before it got dark, and some coffee and bread, or something for her breakfast.

  The entrance of a shiftless-looking maid carrying a coal-oil stove that reeked of kerosene gave her pause until the stove was placed and lighted and she was inducted into its mysteries; for she never had met a kerosene stove before.

  She asked the woman a few questions about the neighborhood, where she could purchase a coffeepot and a few eatables, and discovered that the maid was not a maid at all, only a cleaning woman
who came in by the day as needed.

  When the woman, who said her name was Ida, had departed, Dale locked her door and went out in search of what she needed. She discovered a restaurant about a block and a half away, although it didn't look inviting.

  She came back with her coffeepot, bread, butter, some cereal, a tin box of crackers, half a dozen oranges, and a bottle of milk. She felt that she would rather get her own breakfasts than to be always going out for them.

  She examined the bedding on the cot, found it fairly clean, decided she would have to ask for more blankets if the weather grew any colder, drew out the little stand and sat down to write a letter and looked about her in the dim light with some satisfaction that she was out of the Baker house at last. Perhaps someday she would be glad to get out of this house, too, but tonight she was amazingly glad to have found it, and to be able after she had hung up a few of the things from her trunk, to get into her hard little bed and drop off to sleep, knowing that for this one time at least she needn't get up in the morning until she felt like it.

  So at last she turned out the stranger-stove, which did smoke in spite of what the landlady had said, snapped off her light, and got into bed.

  Yet tired as she was she found it wasn't so easy to fall asleep in this strange new room, in a hard shivery bed, with the odor of kerosene smoke lingering on the air. Even the sharp winter wind that came in from that back alley when the window was open did not clear the air.

  It wasn't easy to forget the noises that were coming in continually from the street, voices, sometimes in strange languages, clamoring, occasional yells, drunken outcries, screaming babies, and neighborhood radios. What a world she had come to, and must stay in, until she could find a way to work herself into one that would be more pleasant!

  Yet on that night when she had just drifted off into sleep she heard the front door open. Heard footsteps up the stairs, other doors down the hall opening and closing, a babble of voices high and shrill, and others thick, illucid. What kind of a home had she found for herself? But she must stay here until she had found a real job. She must, if she possibly could stand it.