“I am staying in Gramercy Park, and want—”
Kitty, who had been stretching her neck to its full length to catch his words, straightened up. “Ye'll have to get out. I'm no long-distance telephone, and the racket of them horse-cars is enough to set a body crazy.”
The passenger laughed, stretched out a leg, gathered the other beside it, and stepped to the sidewalk. “You seem to understand your business, my good woman,” he began, unbuttoning his overcoat to get at the inside pocket of his cutaway.
“Why shouldn't I? I been at it these twenty years.”
She had taken him in now, from his polished silk hat, gray hair, and red cheeks down to his check trousers, white spats, and well-brushed shoes. Her own face was by this time wreathed in smiles; she saw the man was a gentleman who had intended only to be courteous. “Is that what ye came to tell me?” she cried.
“No, but I would have done so if I had ever watched you work. Oh, here it is,” he continued, drawing out his pocketbook. “I want you to—” he stopped and looked at her from over the rims of his gold spectacles—“but I may not have hold of the right person. May I ask if you belong here?”
Her head went up with a toss, her eyes dancing. “Of course ye can ask anything ye please, but I'll tell ye right off I don't belong here. Every blessed thing here belongs to me and my man John.”
The passenger broke into a laugh. He had evidently found a rara avis, and was enjoying the discovery to the full. American types always interested him; this sample of Irish-New York was a revelation.
“Go on,” smiled Kitty, “I'm waitin'.”
“Well, take this order to No. 3 Gramercy Park, and they will give you my two boxes, a shirt case, a roll of steamer-rugs, and some golf-sticks in a leather pouch, five pieces in all. Get them down to the Cunard dock by eleven, and my servant will be there to take charge of them. The steamer sails at twelve. Is that clear?”