Round the Block | Page 9

two, maybe. Perhaps
you would like to argue that point." Overtop smiled, as if nothing
would give him greater pleasure than to annihilate a few dozen
opinions to the contrary.
"To save argument, as usual, we admit everything," responded
Wilkeson. "But, pray condescend to tell us how you know this fine old
boy to be superlatively rich."
Overtop smiled upon his ignorant friends, and answered:
"Because he wears a white cravat. The man isn't a clergyman, is he? Do
clergymen smoke pipes? He isn't a Quaker, is he? Do Quakers, or those
of them who indulge in white cravats, wear their coat collars turned
down? Consult your own experience, now, and tell me whether you
ever saw anybody but a very rich man (with the exceptions already
stated) wearing a white cravat. I leave it to your candor."
Wilkeson and Maltboy nodded their heads, as if stricken dumb with
conviction.
Overtop, gratified with this ready acquiescence, modestly went on to
say that he would not undertake to explain the phenomenon; that task
he left to some more philosophical mind. He contented himself with
making a humble record of facts.
"And now that each of you have made a discovery in the row of houses,
let me try my luck." Overtop rubbed the window, looked out, and
carefully surveyed the row from end to end, and back again. "Ah, I
have it!" he said. "A real mystery, too. Look at that four-story house
near the western end of the block, the one a trifle shabbier than its
neighbors. Do you see, in the open window, a man with a pale,

intellectual face, gray hair, and arms bare to the elbows, filing away at
something held in a vise before him? Now he stops to examine a
paper--a plan, probably--which he holds in his hand. Now he wipes the
perspiration from his forehead. Can't you see him?"
"Distinctly," was the joint reply.
"What do you suppose he is doing?" asked Overtop.
"No idea," said Wilkeson. "Perhaps mending a teakettle."
"Or repairing an umbrella," suggested Maltboy.
Overtop smiled, and said:
"A person with the slightest powers of observation, would see that that
man has genius in his face; that his thin arm is not used to hard
mechanical labor; that his brain is so heated with great ideas, that he
tries to cool it by opening the window. The tinkering of an umbrella or
teakettle would not make a man sweat in midwinter. You won't deny
the force of that suggestion."
As he spoke, a young girl advanced from the back part of the room, and
stood by the pale workman's side. She wore a bonnet, and a shawl
tightly wrapped around her. Though the features of her face could not
be distinguished in the distance, it was not hard to detect a pleasant
expression in her eyes, a smile on her lips, and a high color on her
cheeks, as if she had just come in from the street. She held up a little
basket for the workman's inspection.
He paused in his labor, took the girl's head between his hands, and
kissed her fondly on the brow. Then he opened the little basket, and
drew from it a loaf of bread and a piece of cheese, which he began
eating hurriedly. He also seemed, by signs, to press the girl to eat; but
she shook her head, smiled more than before, and looked up
affectionately into his face. Having bolted a few mouthfuls, the
workman placed the remains of the repast on the bench or table before
him, kissed the young girl, and resumed his work. She watched every

motion of his hand with eager eyes. Once she moved as if to close the
window, but he shook his head, and again wiped the sweat from his
brow.
He had consulted the paper, and attacked his task with fresh energy for
the third or fourth time, when his eyes happened to rest upon the
window full of scrutinizing faces. His lips moved in some sudden
exclamation, and then he shut the window with vehemence, and drew
the curtain which obscured the lower half of it.
"Not a very kind reception of your theory, so far," said Marcus.
"Prejudice--nothing more," said Overtop. "When they see that we have
no wish to pry into their private affairs, but are animated with a
neighborly regard for them, they will not repel our advances. It isn't
human nature."
CHAPTER IV.
QIGG.
During the following two weeks, up to New Year's day, the three
friends made little progress in their observations. The tall girl in the
immense skirts appeared rarely to reward Matthew Maltboy's ardent
gaze, and even then seemed to look down at the dingy snow beneath, or
the clouds overhead, or to something or somebody across