AT HOME WITH THE DILLONS
I was expectin' to put in a couple of days doin' the sad and lonely, Sadie havin' made a date to run out to Rocky wold for the week end; but Friday night when I'm let off at the seventh floor of the Perzazzer—and say, no matter how many flights up home is, there's no place like it—who should I see but Sadie, just takin' off her hat. Across by the window is one of the chamber maids, leanin' up against the casing and snifflin' into the expensive draperies.
"Well, well!" says I. "Is this a rehearsal for a Hank Ibsen sprinkler scene, or is it a case of missin' jewels?"
"It's nothing of the sort, Shorty," says Sadie, giving me the shut-off signal. Then she turns to the girl with a "There, there, Nora! Everything will be all right. And I will be around Sunday afternoon. Run along now, and don't worry." With that she leads Nora out to the door and sends her away with a shoulder pat.
"Who's been getting friendly with the help now; eh, Sadie?" says I. "And what's the woe about?"
Course she begins at the wrong end, and throws in a lot of details that only lumbers up the record; but after she's been talkin' for half an hour—and Sadie can separate herself from a lot of language in that time—I gets a good workin' outline of this domestic tragedy that has left damp spots on our window curtains.
It ain't near so harrowin', though, as you might suspect. Seems that Nora has the weepin' habit. That's how Sadie come to remember havin' seen her before. Also it counts for Nora's shiftin' so often. Folks like Mrs. Purdy Pell and the Twombley-Cranes can't keep a girl around that's liable to weep into the soup or on the card tray. If it wa'n't for that, Nora'd been all right; for she's a neat lookin' girl, handy and willin',—one of these slim, rosy cheeked, black haired, North of Ireland kind, that can get big wages, when they have the sense, which ain't often.
Well, she'd changed around until she lands here in the fresh linen department, workin' reg'lar twelve-hour shifts, one afternoon off a week, and a four-by-six room up under the copper roof, with all the chance in the world to weep and no one to pay any attention to her, until Sadie catches her at it. Trust Sadie!
When she finds Nora leakin' her troubles out over an armful of clean towels, she drags her in here and asks for the awful facts. Then comes the fam'ly history of the Dillons, beginnin' on the old rent at Ballyshannon and endin' in a five-room flat on Double Fifth-ave. When she comes to mentionin' Larry Dillon, I pricks up my ears.
"What! Not the old flannel mouth that's chopped tickets at the 33d-st. station ever since the L was built?" says I.