She was smoothing old Jim’s neck, crooning over him, talking to him in her motherly way, telling him what a ruffian he was and how ashamed she was of him for getting the hair worn off under his collar, and he a horse old enough to know better, Bobby’s “Toodles,” an animated doormat of a dog, sniffing at her skirt, when Otto and his friend hove in sight.

“The top of the mornin’ to ye, Otto Kling, and ye never see a better and a finer.  And what can I do for ye?—­for ye wouldn’t be lavin’ them gimcracks of yours this time O’day unless there was somethin’ up.”

“No, I don’t got nudding you can do for me, Kitty.  It’s dis gentlemans wants someting—­and so I bring him over.”

“That’s mighty kind of ye, Otto—­wait till I get me book.  Careful, Mike.”  The Irishman had just dumped a trunk on the sidewalk, ready to be loaded on Jim’s wagon.  “And now,” continued his mistress, “go to the office and bring me my order-book—­where’ll I go for your baggage, sir?”

“That is a matter I will talk about later.”  He had taken her all in with a rapid glance—­her rosy, laughing face, her head covered by a close-fitting hood, the warm shawl crossed over her full bosom and knotted in the back, short skirt, stout shoes, and gray yarn stockings.

“I don’t care where it is—­Hoboken, Brooklyn—­I’ll get it.  Why, we got a trunk last week clear from Yonkers!”

“I haven’t a doubt of it, my good woman”—­he was still absorbed in the contemplation of her perfect health and the air of breezy competency flowing out from her, making even the morning air seem more exhilarating—­“but you may not want to go for my two trunks.”

“Why not?” She was serious now, her brows knitting, trying to solve his meaning.

Kling shuffled up alongside.  “It’s de room he vants, Kitty.  I been tellin’ him about it.  Bobby says dot odder man skipped an’ you don’t got nobody now.

“Skipped!  I threw him out, me and John, for swearin’ every time he stubbed his toe on the stairs,” and up went her strong arms in illustration.  “And it isn’t yer trunks, but me room.  Who might ye be wantin’ it for?” She had begun to weigh him carefully in return.  Up to this moment he had been to her merely the mouthpiece of an order, to be exchanged later for a card, or slip of paper, or a brass check.  Now he became a personality.  She swept him from head to foot with one of her “sizing-up” examinations, noticing the refinement and thoughtfulness of his clean-shaven face, the white teeth, and the careful trimming of his hair, and the way it grew down on his temples, forming a small quarter whisker.

She noted, too, how the muscles of his face had been tightened as if some effort at self-control had set them into a mask, the real man lying behind his kindly eyes, despite the quick flash that escaped from them now and then.  The inspection over—­and it had occupied some seconds of time—­she renewed the inquiry in a more searching tone, as if she had not heard him aright at first.  “And who did ye say wanted me room?”