The Moriartys lived in a four-room flat on the East Side, uptown, and his visits there gave the captain a glimpse of another sort of New York life, as different from that of Central Park West as could well be imagined. The old man, Patrick, his wife, Margaret, the unmarried son, Dennis, who worked in the gas house, and five other children of various ages were hived somehow in those four small rooms and Captain Elisha marveled greatly thereat.
“For the land sakes, ma’am,” he asked of the nurse, “how do they do it? Where do they put ’em nights? That—that closet in there’s the pantry and woodshed and kitchen and dinin’ room; and that one’s the settin’ room and parlor; and them two dry-goods boxes with doors to ’em are bedrooms. There’s eight livin’ critters to stow away when it’s time to turn in, and one whole bed’s took up by the patient. Where do they put the rest? Hang ’em up on nails?”
The nurse laughed. “Goodness knows!” she said. “He should have been taken to the hospital. In fact, the doctor and I at first insisted upon his removal there. He would have been much better off. But neither he nor his wife would hear of it. She said he would die sure without his home comforts.”
“Humph! I should think more likely he’d die with ’em, or under ’em. I watch that fleshy wife of his with fear and tremblin’. Every time she goes nigh the bed I expect her to trip over a young one and fall. And if she fell on that poor rack-o’-bones,” with a wave of the hand toward the invalid, “’twould be the final smash—like a brick chimney fallin’ on a lath hencoop.”
At that moment the “brick chimney” herself entered the rooms and the nurse accosted her.
“Captain Warren here,” she said, “was asking where you all found sleeping quarters.”
Mrs. Moriarty smiled broadly. “Sure, ’tis aisy,” she explained. “When the ould man is laid up we’re all happy to be a bit uncomfortable. Not that we are, neither. You see, sor, me and Nora and Rosy sleep in the other bed; and Dinnie has a bit of a shakedown in the parlor; and Honora is in the kitchen; and—”
“There! there!” Captain Elisha interrupted hastily, “don’t tell me any more. I’d rather guess that the baby bunks in the cookstove oven than know it for sartin. How did the grapes I sent you go?” turning to the sick man.
“Aw, sor! they were foine. God bless you, sor! Mary be kind to you, sor! Sure the angels’ll watch over you every day you live and breathe!”
Captain Elisha bolted for the parlor, the sufferer firing a gatling fusillade of blessings after him. Mrs. Moriarty continued the bombardment, as she escorted him to the door of the flat.