“Here’s Mr. Camm’s hat, mum,” I says, “I came over from Mr. Silverstein’s in the Bowery. There’s a dollar to pay.”
“No, there ain’t!” she blurted right out mad like, then she switched up all of a sudden and looked scared like.
“I don’t know what yer talkin’ about,” she says. “There ain’t nobody of that name here. You must have got the wrong house.”
I was half way through the door, and tried to get the whole way in, but she sorter got in front of me and worked me out into the airy.
“You needn’t try to crowd in here,” she says. “Get off with your lies and your hat.”
“Say, you don’t expect me to lug that hat-box all the way back to the Bowery,” I says. “Mr. Silverstein has sent hats to this house before, and I guess you can’t fool me if you try.”
But I want you to understand that she would slam the door in my face, and she did.
Just as I was backing out of the yard I heard a slight rattle of the blinds at one of the upper windows.
I looked up and caught a glimpse of a man’s face looking at me through the slats.