Years ago No. 49 had been the abode of a jobbing builder, hence the little yard gate that flanked one side; and it was with satisfaction that the Cawdor Streeters discovered that the new occupant intended reviving the ancient splendor of the establishment. At any rate, a board was prominently displayed, bearing the inscription:
J. JONES, BUILDER AND CONTRACTOR.
and the inquisitive Mr. Lane (of 76), who caught a momentary vision of the yard through the gate, observed “Office” printed in fairly large letters over the side door.
At stated hours, mostly in the evening, roughly-dressed men called at the “Office,” stayed awhile, and went away. Two dilapidated ladders made their appearance in the yard, conspicuously lifting their perished rungs above the gate level.
“I tried to buy an old builder’s cart and a wheelbarrow to-day,” said “Mr. Jones” to a workman. “I’ll probably get it to-morrow at my own price, and it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get a few sacks of lime and a couple of cartloads of sand and bricks in, also a few road pitchers to give it a finishing touch.”
The workman grinned.
“You’ve got this place ready in time, Connor,” he said.
Mr. Connor—for such “J. Jones, Builder and Contractor” was—nodded and picked his teeth meditatively with a match stick.
“I’ve seen for a long time the other place was useless,” he said with a curse.
“It was bad luck that Angel found us there last week. I’ve been fixing up this house for a couple of months. It’s a nice neighborhood, where people don’t go nosing around, and the boys can meet here without anybody being the wiser.”