“Oh, I’ve a hundred or so that will keep me going for a while. Tell me something about these Prices of yours.”
“Here’s the place, itself, will tell ye more than I can.”
They had halted before a large block of buildings, not of a particularly fine or imposing architecture. In fact, they had been originally dwelling-houses, then had been turned into stores, and had been applied to their present purpose with as little alteration as was practically possible. The corner house still bore over its entrance the words, “Männerchor Gesangverein;” but above this, in huge golden letters running along as much of the conglomerate building as possible, shone this inscription, “The Prices.”
“Will ye go to your rooms—I have the key in me pocket—or will ye see the place first?” asked Father McClosky. “It’s half-past eleven, and dinner is from twelve till two. I take mine at one usually, the way I won’t be interferin’ with the factory hands and teachers and the like, that has only one hour to call their own.”
Ernest Clare smiled. “Factory hands and teachers,—et id genus omne!” he said. “I think I’ll go over the building, Bryan. But do you take all your meals here? I know you’ve a house of your own.”
“Except when I brew me a cup of coffee on my little gas stove of an inclement morning,” replied the little priest, with a twinkle of his black eye. “Sure, it saves me the expense of a housekeeper, and a mighty lot of trouble. I’ve an old woman now to clean and go away peacefully, and one of me acolytes looks after the fires; and av he don’t burn the house down some fine day, he’ll do mighty well.”
“But couldn’t you rent your house, and take a room here? You’d save still more, then.”
“No doubt; but—well, Ernest, I like me little house. It’s quieter and more convenient; besides, it joins the church, and I’d not like to rent it; besides that, I’d get into trouble av I did. But it’s mighty convenient to eat here; though, to be sure, the half of them is blazing heretics, like yourself, and the rest howling infidels and bloody-minded atheists. But heretic food agrees mighty well with a Catholic digestion, I find. Here, ye can leave your gripsack in the janitor’s office.” He led the way as he spoke into the main door, within which a glass door at the side showed a small room, chiefly furnished with shelves, hooks, etc., for the reception of hats, umbrellas, and the like.
“This is Bruno Schaefer, janitor by the divine right of hereditary descent,” said Father McClosky, as a pleasant-looking young man sprang up from his seat beside a table, upon which lay several large books. “His brother Franz was the first under the present régime.”
Bruno smiled broadly at this Irish heredity as he took Mr. Clare’s grip, umbrella, and hat, in exchange for a celluloid check.