The Story of Patsy | Page 9

sent her by Julie, and said 'if it was
all the same to me, she'd rather have something that would make a little
more show!' And--oh yes, do see if you can find Jacob Shubener's hat;
he is crying down in the yard, and doesn't dare go home without it."
"Very well. Four cases. Strozynski--steps--cruelty.
Hickok--chicken-pox--ingratitude. Slamberg--aprons--vanity.
Shubener--hat--carelessness. Oh that I could fasten Jacob's hat to his
ear by a steel chain! Has he looked in the sink?"
"Yes."
"Ash-barrel?"
"Certainly."
"Up in the pepper-tree?"
"Of course."
"Then some one has 'chucked' it into the next yard, and the janitor will
have to climb the fence,--at his age! Oh, if I could eliminate the
irregular verb 'to chuck' from the vocabulary of this school, I could
'make out of the broken sounds of life a song, and out of life itself a
melody,'" and she flew down-stairs like a breeze, to find the patient Mr.
Bowker. Mr. Bowker was a nice little man, who had not all his wits
about him, but whose heart was quite intact, and who swept with
energy and washed windows with assiduity. He belonged to the
Salvation Army, and the most striking articles of his attire, when

sweeping, were a flame-colored flannel shirt and a shiny black hat with
"Prepare to Meet Thy God" on the front in large silver letters. The
combination of color was indescribably pictorial, and as lurid and
suggestive as an old-fashioned Orthodox sermon.
As I went through the lower hall, I found Mr. Bowker assisting Helen
to search the coal-bin. "Don't smile," she cried. "Punch says,
'Sometimes the least likeliest place is more likelier than the most
likeliest,'--and sure enough, here is the hat! I should have been named
Deborah or Miriam,--not Helen!" and she hurried to dry the tears of the
weeping Jacob.
[Illustration: "HERE IS THE HAT!"]
CHAPTER V.
I SEEK PATSY, AND MEET THE DUCHESS OF ANNA STREET.
"'Tis pride, rank pride and haughtiness of soul."
I make my way through the streets, drinking in the glorious air,
breathing the perfume of the countless fruit stands and the fragrances
that floated out from the open doors of the little flower stores in every
block, till I left all that was pleasant behind me and turned into Anna
Street.
I soon found Number 32, a dirty, tumble-down, one-story hovel, the
blinds tied together with selvedges of red flannel, and a rickety bell that
gave a certain style to the door, though it had long ceased to ring.
A knock brought a black-haired, beetle-browed person to the window.
"Does Mrs. Kennett live here?"
"No, she don't. I live here."
"Oh! then you are not Mrs. Kennett?"

"Wall, I ruther guess not!" This in a tone of such royal superiority and
disdain that I saw in an instant I had mistaken blue blood for red.
"I must have been misinformed, then. This is Number 32?"
"Can't yer see it on the door?"
"Yes," meekly. "I thought perhaps Anna Street had been numbered
over."
"What made yer think Mis' Kennett lived here?"
"A little girl brought me her name written on a card,--Mrs. Kennett, 32
Anna Street."
"There!" triumphantly, "I might 'a knowed that woman 'd play some
common trick like that! Now do you want ter know where Mis' Kennett
re'ly doos live? Wall, she lives in the rear! Her number's 32-1/2, 'n I
vow she gits more credit o' livin' in the front house 'n I do, 'n I pay four
dollars more rent! Ever see her? I thought not! I guess 'f you hed you
wouldn't think of her livin' in a house like this!"
"Excuse me. I didn't expect to make any trouble"--
"Oh, I've nothin' agin you, but just let me ketch her puttin' on airs 'n
pertendin' to live like her betters, that's all! She's done it before, but I
couldn't never ketch her at it. The idee of her keepin' up a house like
this!" and with a superb sniff like that of a battle-horse, she disappeared
from the front window of her ancestral mansion and sought one at the
back which might command a view of my meeting with her rival.
I slid meekly through a side gate, every picket of which was decorated
with a small child, stumbled up a dark narrow passage, and found
myself in a square sort of court out of which rose the rear houses so
objectionable to my Duchess in the front row.
It was not plain sailing, by any means, owing to the collection of tin
cans and bottles through which I had to pick my way, but I climbed

some frail wooden steps, and stood at length on the landing of Number
32-1/2.
The door was open, and there sat Patsy, "minding" the Kennett baby, a
dull little