“Next week,” said brightened Clara, “it’s going to be portcheers. They’re chenille and grand for a doorway. No room ain’t complete without portcheers.” She again shook the table to show how firm the legs were and then went away.
McGibney and Mrs. McGibney stood out on the front stoop of the rust-stained frame house, looking at the tailor, who was putting up a new sign: “Pants pressed, ten cents. Full-dress suits cleaned and pressed, one dollar.” McGibney thought of “full-dress” suits and looked down the street, at rags and dirt and ashes. It was Saturday night and they were going over to Ninth Avenue, to Paddy’s Market. Along came Clara, reaching the stoop, starting up the stoop, half up the stoop before she saw the McGibneys.
“Oh, is it you?” said Clara, with only the beginning of the slow, amiable smile.
“The portcheers is gone!” she said, without excitement. “My heart was set on them—the portcheers has gone. Would you say to me, now, that it only happens that way, Mrs. McGibney? Is there somebody playing mean, low tricks on me, or ain’t there? Does three times in succession just happen? The portcheers was bought last Monday. Was that only accident? Oh, but I came around to see would you lend me fifty cents? There’s a hat-rack I want. It’s meant for a front hall, but the mirror in it is nice and there’s a bit of marble to it, and it’ll look nice in my rooms, where, to my longest day, no man’ll ever hang his hat on it, unless you, Mr. McGibney, when you and Mrs. McGibney come and see me. I don’t like to ask you for fifty cents, Mrs. McGibney, and you just going to do your bit of marketing.”
“There’s fifty dollars in the bank that you can have any time you say so, Clara!” exclaimed McGibney.
“We’d rather have you owing it than have it in the bank, Clara,” said Mrs. McGibney, “because the bank might bust.”
Clara looked embarrassed. “Don’t you want to come look at the hat-rack?” she asked. “It’ll set your front room off fine!” The McGibneys pinched each other’s arms, as if saying, “Oh, Lord, preserve us!” All three went down the street toward Ninth Avenue, Clara preferring one side of the street; then, thinking the other side was darker, choosing the darker side so that if they should meet “him” he might not recognize them.
Torches on wagons, wagonloads of oranges, twenty for twenty-five cents; pairs of rabbits slung on headless barrels, plump rabbits hanging outside, furry rags, shot to pieces, inside the barrels; piles of soup greens and mounds of cabbages; cries of “Everything cheap! Only a few more left!” Paddy’s Market! Then the second-hand furniture store, with bed springs and pillows outside it; stoves with covers and legs in the ovens; rolls of matting; everything second-hand, even crockery and tea-kettles. Clara went into the store, Mrs. McGibney having paused to dig a thumb-nail into potatoes to see whether they were frozen, McGibney lingering with her, because he would have to carry the potatoes.
Clara came back to the sidewalk. Again her eyes were unseeing. “The hat-rack,” said Clara, staring at nothing visible, “is sold. I ain’t been gone from here ten minutes. It’s sold. Everything I got my heart on is sold. I don’t know who’s doing it, but they’ll never have a day’s luck for it.”
“But what could I do, lady?” The furniture man came cringing out to her. “You know you didn’t leave no deposit. Would you like to look at some mats for your front hall? You didn’t leave no deposit, so what could I do? I got a very heavy, rich and elegant mat here for your front hall; though the number of a house is onto it.”