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Page 14
He would prepare for his luncheon of dry bread and water. He would slice
into a loaf -- ah!
Miss Martha blushed. Would he think of the hand that placed it there as
he ate? Would he --
The front door bell jangled viciously. Somebody was coming in, making a
great deal of noise.
Miss Martha hurried to the front. Two men were there. One was a young
man smoking a pipe -- a man she had never seen before. The other was her
artist.
His face was very red, his hat was on the back of his head, his hair was
wildly rumpled. He clinched his two fists and shook them ferociously at
Miss Martha. _At Miss Martha_.
"_Dummkopf_!" he shouted with extreme loudness; and then "_Tausendonfer_!"
or something like it in German.
The young man tried to draw him away.
"I vill not go," he said angrily, "else I shall told her."
He made a bass drum of Miss Martha's counter.
"You haf shpoilt me," he cried, his blue eyes blazing behind his
spectacles. "I vill tell you. You vas von _meddingsome old cat_!"
Miss Martha leaned weakly against the shelves and laid one hand on her
blue-dotted silk waist. The young man took the other by the collar.
"Come on," he said, "you've said enough." He dragged the angry one out at
the door to the sidewalk, and then came back.
"Guess you ought to be told, ma'am," he said, "what the row is about.
That's Blumberger. He's an architectural draftsman. I work in the same
office with him.
"He's been working hard for three months drawing a plan for a new city
hall. It was a prize competition. He finished inking the lines
yesterday. You know, a draftsman always makes his drawing in pencil
first. When it's done he rubs out the pencil lines with handfuls of stale
bread crumbs. That's better than India rubber.
"Blumberger's been buying the bread here. Well, to-day -- well, you know,
ma'am, that butter isn't -- well, Blumberger's plan isn't good for
anything now except to cut up into railroad sandwiches."
Miss Martha went into the back room. She took off the blue-dotted silk
waist and put on the old brown serge she used to wear. Then she poured
the quince seed and borax mixture out of the window into the ash can.
IV THE PRIDE OF THE CITIES
Said Mr. Kipling, "The cities are full of pride, challenging each to
each." Even so.
New York was empty. Two hundred thousand of its people were away for the
summer. Three million eight hundred thousand remained as caretakers and
to pay the bills of the absentees. But the two hundred thousand are an
expensive lot.
The New Yorker sat at a roof-garden table, ingesting solace through a
straw. His panama lay upon a chair. The July audience was scattered
among vacant seats as widely as outfielders when the champion batter steps
to the plate. Vaudeville happened at intervals. The breeze was cool from
the bay; around and above -- everywhere except on the stage -- were
stars. Glimpses were to be had of waiters, always disappearing, like
startled chamois. Prudent visitors who had ordered refreshments by 'phone
in the morning were now being served. The New Yorker was aware of certain
drawbacks to his comfort, but content beamed softly from his rimless
eyeglasses. His family was out of town. The drinks were warm; the ballet
was suffering from lack of both tune and talcum -- but his family would
not return until September.
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