“It was the best I could do,” he replied simply.

“Vot does she give you?”

“A small bedroom, my coffee in the morning, and my dinner—­both served in my room on a tray.”

“Yes, I see; dot’s it.  She charge about tree dollars for de tray.  I find you someting better as dot.  Kitty Cleary has a room—­you don’t know Kitty?  Vell, you ought to begin right avay.  Dot’s vun voman you don’t ever see again.  She vas in here last night, after you left, looking for her man Mike.  She take you for five dollars a veek, maybe, and you get good tings to eat and you get Kitty besides, and dot is vorth more as ten dollars.  She lives across de street—­you can see one of her vagons—­dot big vite horse is hers, and she love dot horse as much as she love her husband John and her boy Bobby, all but dot fool dog of Bobby’s, she don’t love him.  You go over dere and tell her I sent you.”

The stranger had relighted his pipe, and was watching the dealer clutching nervously at his spectacles, pushing them far up on his forehead, only to readjust them again on his nose.  He had begun to detect behind the fat, round face of the thrifty shopkeeper a certain kindly quality.  “And who may this remarkable lady be, this Mrs. Cleary?” he inquired.

“She ain’t no lady.  She is better as a hundert ladies —­she is joost a plain vomans who keeps a express office over dere—­Cleary’s Express.  You don’t know it?  Vell, dot’s your fault.  Dot’s her boy Bobby outside de door.  He has been up vid his fadder to de Grand Central for some sideboards and sofas I been buyin’.  You vant to look at ’em ven dey git unloaded.  They joost ready to fall to pieces, and if I patch ’em up nobody don’t buy ’em.  Vot I do is to leave ’em out on de sidewalk for a veek or two and let de dirt and rain get on ’em, den somebody come along and say:  ’Dot is genuine.  You can see right avay how olt dot is.  Dot is because de bottom is out of de sofas, and de back of de behind of de sideboard is busted.  So den I get fifty dollars more for repairin’ my own furniture.  Ain’t dot funny?  And ven I send it home dey say:  ’Oh, ain’t dot beautiful!  You ought to have seen dot ven I bought it of old Kling!  You vouldn’t give two dollars for it.  All he did vas to scrape it down and revarnish it—­and now it is joost as good as new.’  Ain’t dot funny?  Vy, sometimes I have to holt on to my sides for fear dey vill split vid my laughter, and my two German mens dey stuff dere fingers in dere mouths so de customers can’t hear.  And all de backs new, and de legs made outer udder legs, and de handles I get across at de hardvare store!  Oh, I tell you, it’s funny!  But you know all about it.  Maybe you vunce keep a place yourself?”

“No, never.”

“Vot!”

“No, I have never been in your line of trade.”

“Vell, how do you know so much?”

“I know very little, but I have always enjoyed such things.”

“Vell, dot’s more funny yet.  You vould make a lot of money if you did.  Ven you get someting for nudding you know it—­I don’t.  You see dem—­vot you call ’em—­Spodes—­and dot tureen, dot—­”