The Casey house, in the early history of the city, had been a proud brick mansion of eight rooms, with green blinds, and flower beds outlined in serrated points of red brick. But the street had risen above the level of the yard, leaving the old house like a tombstone on a sunken grave. The old-fashioned porches were dust-coloured and worm-eaten, the fences fallen away, and the broken window panes and missing slats of the blinds gave it a peculiarly sightless and toothless appearance. Like a faithful friend, the old house shared the fallen fortunes of its early owner, for Mr. Schultzsky had bought it, as he had come into possession of nearly all his real estate, at a tax title sale. Now, as he tied his horse and Tommy Casey heralded his approach, Mrs. Casey with the baby tucked in the curve of one arm turned the bread in the oven, slammed the oven door, whisked the dust off a chair, and waited.
Presently the fickle April sunshine that poured in a broad band through the kitchen door was shadowed, and the landlord stood at the threshold. He did not wish Mrs. Casey a polite good-morning: this was not Mr. Schultzsky's way. Instead, he gave a characteristic little grunt, and opening an overfed pocket book, produced from among others of its kind a monthly rent bill, and extended it without further ceremony.
Mrs. Casey laid the baby in its cradle, brought her knuckles to her hips, and invoking the spirit of a long line of oppression-hating ancestors to her aid, opened the battle.
"Mr. Schultzsky," she began, her soft Irish half-brogue giving no sign of the trembling within, "whin we moved here a year ago, there was promises ye made us that ye've not kep'. The roof is l'akin' worse than it did then,—the overfillin' of a tub in a bad rain,—an' me wit' my man a coachman out late o' nights, havin' to get up out o' me bed wit' the lightnin' flashin' an' lave me wailin' baby to pull a tub up the ladder undher the roof! The windays are out, six of thim,—not that we done it, mind you,—the floors are broke,—an' of the whole eight rooms, foive of thim are not fit for a dacint fam'ly to live in, wit' the paint all gone an' the paper smoky an' palin' off. The front gate was gone before we ever came here, an' now the fince posts has rotted off an' the fince is down. Here is Spring clanin' on me, an' what can I do wit' a place like this? Fifteen dollars a month, Mr. Schultzsky, we're payin' ye, an' the money waitin' for ye as reg'lar as the month comes around. But now what I have say to ye is this: we'll move the week out onless ye paper an' paint the five rooms,"—Mrs. Casey counted the items off on her fingers,—"put in a new kitchen floor, fix the six windays, patch the roof, set up the fince, an' put a bit o' paint on the porches. It's not that our place is any worse than the others in Cherry Street, but the Caseys bein' good pay, an' knowin' it, is goin' to have things a bit different, that's all."
Mr. Schultzsky considered. He took off his silk hat, carefully wiped his forehead with a red cotton handkerchief, and replaced the antiquated head-covering. He shuffled his rusty boots and thrust his hands down into the pockets of his shining coat to gain time. His small black eyes glittered craftily as he mentally added, subtracted, and struck off the fraction of a per cent. Then he made his decision, but he said not a word. He took from the recesses of his capacious coat-tails a red card, some tacks and a small hammer. Without another look at Mrs. Casey, and with as little regard for the group of awe-stricken children, he passed around the house to the front door and tacked up the sign.
Number 12 Cherry Street was for rent.
[CHAPTER II]
MISS BILLY
“A girl who has so many wilful ways
She would have caused Job’s patience to forsake him,
Yet is so rich in all that's girlhood’s praise,
Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze,
A little better she would surely make him.”