“Now I wonder what the dickens she can mean?” mused Ravenslee.

“She means jest strawberry jam an’ angel cake an’ water cress, fer tea—fer your visitors,” said Mrs. Trapes, with a patient sigh.

“Visitors!” repeated Ravenslee, glancing up. “Why, yes, they’ll be here about four o’clock.”

“An’ will water cress an’ angel cake an’—”

“Quite enough! Certainly! Admirable!” exclaimed Ravenslee. “But what beats me,” he continued, staring down at the letter again, “is what she can mean by writing this.”

“Not knowin’ what she’s wrote, I can’t say.”

“Mrs. Trapes, I know you are Hermione’s best and staunchest friend, and lately I have ventured to hope you are mine too. As such, I want you to read this letter—see if you can explain it!”

So Mrs. Trapes took the letter; and when she had read it through, folded it together with hands very gentle and reverent and stood awhile staring out into the sunlit court.

“My land!” she said at last, her harsh voice grown almost soft, “love’s a wonderful thing, I reckon. No wonder your eyes shine so. Yes, love’s a great an’ wonderful thing—my land!”

“But can you explain,” said Ravenslee, as he took back the letter, “can you tell me what she means by—”

“Shucks, Mr. Geoffrey! That sure don’t want no explainin’. When you said all you did say to her, did y’ say anything about ‘wife’ or ‘marriage’?”

“Why, of course I did!”

“Sure?”

“Yes—er—that is—I think so.”

“Not sure then?”

“Well, I may have done so—I must have done so, but really I—er—forget—”

“Forget!” Mrs. Trapes snorted. “Now look-a-here, Mr. Geoffrey, what d’ ye want with Hermy; is it a wife you’re after or only—”

“Mrs. Trapes!” Ravenslee was upon his feet, and before the sudden glare in his eyes Mrs. Trapes gaped and for once fell silent. “Mrs. Trapes,” said he, still frowning a little, “really you—you almost—made me angry.”

“My land!” said she, “I’m kind o’ glad I didn’t—quite!” and her sniff was eloquent.

“You see,” he went on, glancing down at the letter again, “I’ve learned to love and reverence her so much that your suggestion—hurt rather!”

“Why, then, Mr. Geoffrey, I’m sorry. But if your love is so big an’ true as all that—if you want her t’ be a wife t’ you—why in the ‘tarnal didn’t ye speak out an’ tell her so?”

“I’ll go and tell her so this minute.”

“Y’ can’t! She’s gone t’ Bronx Park with that b’y, ‘n’ won’t be back all day.”

“Damn!” exclaimed Ravenslee.

“Sure!” nodded Mrs. Trapes. “Keep on, it’ll do ye good. But anyway, what y’ got t’ say’ll keep, I guess—it’ll gush out all the stronger fer bein’ bottled up a day or two.”

“I can write!” he suggested.

“You can—but you won’t—you’ll tell her with your two lips—a woman likes it better spoke—if spoke proper—I should! With arms entwined an’ eyes lookin’ into eyes an’—oh, shucks! Will angel cake an’ strawberry jam—”

“They’ll be ample, and—thank you, dear Mrs. Trapes!”

CHAPTER XXIV

HOW THE OLD UN AND CERTAIN OTHERS HAD TEA

“Old Un,” said Joe, halting his aged companion in the middle of the second flight to wag a portentous finger, “Old Un, mind this now—if there should ‘appen to be cake for tea, don’t go makin’ a ancient beast of yourself with it—no slippin’ lumps of it into your pocket on the sly, mind, because if I ketch ye at it—”

“Don’t be ‘arsh, Joe, don’t be ‘arsh! Cake comes soft t’ me pore old teef.”

“An’ mind this again—if there should be any jam about, no stickin’ ye wicked old fingers into it an’ lickin’ ‘em behind my back.”

“You lemme an’ the jam alone, Joe; it’s a free country, ain’t it?—very well, then!”

“Free country be blowed! You mind what I say, you venerable old bag of iniquity, you!”

“‘Niquity yerself!” snarled the Old Un, and snapping bony finger and thumb under Joe’s massive chin, turned and went on up the stairs, his smart straw hat cocked at a defiant angle, his brilliant shoes creaking loudly at every step.

“Oh, Gorramighty!” he panted, halting suddenly on the fifth landing to get his breath, “these perishin’ stairs ‘as ketched my wind, Joe; it’s worse ‘n th’ treadmill! Is there many more of ‘em?”

“Only six flights!” nodded Joe grimly.

“Six!” wailed the Old Un. “Lord—it’ll be the death o’ me!”

“Well, it’s about time you was dead,” nodded Joe.

“Dead ye’self!” snarled the old man. “I’m a better figger of a man than ever you was—”

“An’ you would come,” continued Joe serenely, as he deftly resettled the old fellow’s sporty bow-tie. “You fair plagued me to bring ye along, didn’t ye, old packet o’ vindictiveness?”

“Well, an’ here I am, Joe, an’ here I mean t’ stay—no more climbin’ fer me; I’m tired, me lad, tired!” Saying which, the Old Un spread his handkerchief on a convenient stair and proceeded to seat himself thereon with due regard for his immaculately creased trousers.

“Well,” growled Joe, “of all the perverse old raspers that ever I did see—”

“That’s enough, Joe, that’s enough!” exclaimed the Old Un, fanning himself with his rakish hat. “Jest bend down and flick the dust off me shoes with your wipe, like a good lad, will ye? That’s the worst o’ these ‘ere patent leathers; they looks well, but they sure ketches th’ dust, Joe, they ketches the dust oncommon bad. So jest give ‘em a flick over—me pore old back’s too stiff t’ let me reach ‘em, what wi’ me rheumatiz an’ a floatin’ kidney or so—”

“Kidneys!” snarled Joe, drawing out a large bandanna handkerchief and polishing the old man’s natty shoes until they shone resplendent. “What’s the matter with ye blessed kidneys now?”

“Don’t I tell ye—they floats, Joe, they floats!”

“Float!” growled Joe. “Float—where to?”

“‘Ere, there, an’ everywhere, Joe, I can feel ‘em! They’re always a-gettin’ theirselves all mixed up any’ow. Oh, it’s an ‘orrible complaint to ‘ave kidneys like mine as gets theirselves lost.”

“Wish they’d lose you along with ‘em!” growled Joe, shaking the dust from his handkerchief.

“Joe,” said the old man, putting on his hat and blinking up at him beneath its jaunty brim, “Joe, sometimes I fair despise ye!”

“Well, despise away,” nodded Joe, “only get up—stand up on them doddering old pins o’ yourn.”

“Not me!” declared the Old Un, “I ain’t goin’ to climb no more o’ these perishin’ stairs—no, not for you nor nobody. ‘Ere I am, me lad, an’ ‘ere I sits till you give me a piggy-back up to the top—me bein’ a pore old cove with rheumatiz. I demands it—”

“You’ll what?” growled Joe, hard-breathing and indignant.

“Demand it, Joe—a pore old feller wi’ kidneys—an’ every other ailment as flesh is hair to—a piggy-back, Joe—a piggy-back!”

Without another word Joe stooped, and lifting the old man beneath one arm, bore him up the stairs regardless of his croaking protestations and fierce invective.

“I said a piggy-back—oh, you blightin’ perisher, I said a piggy-back,” he snarled, his resplendent shoes twinkling in futile kicks. “Oh, Joe, there’s times when I fair ‘ates ye!”

Thus, despite virulent curses and feeble kickings, Joe bore him on and up until, as he climbed the last flight, he was arrested by an exclamation from above, and glancing upward, beheld a tall, sharp-featured woman who leaned over the rail.

“Oh, land o’ my fathers!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, “what’s the matter—what you got there? Who are ye?”

“The matter, ma’am,” answered Joe, for by this time the Old Un had cursed himself quite breathless, “the matter’s contrariness; what I ‘ave under my arm, ma’am, is a old reprobate, and I’m Joe Madden, ma’am, come to take tea with my—come, as you might say, a visiting to Mr. Geoffrey; p’raps you’ll—”

“Don’t ‘eed ‘im, ma’am—never ‘eed ‘im!” croaked the Old Un, who had regained his wind by now. “‘E ‘s a perishin’ pork pig, that’s wot ‘e is. Joe, you blighter, put me down. It’s me as the Guv expects—it’s me as ‘as come a-visitin’—Joe, put me down, you perisher. Joe’s only a hoaf, ma’am, a nass, ma’am. Joe ain’t used to perlite serciety, Joe don’t know nothin’—put me down, Joe, like a good lad!”

At this juncture Ravenslee appeared, whereupon Joe, having reached the topmost landing, set the old man upon his natty feet and fell to straightening his smart clothes with hands big but gentle.

“Sir,” explained Joe, answering Ravenslee’s smiling look, “Old Sin an’ Sorrer here wouldn’t walk up, which forced me to—”

But now the Old Un, feeling himself again, cut in on his own account. “Ma’am,” said he, flourishing off his hat to Mrs. Trapes, “‘ere ‘s me an’ me lad Joe come to tea—my best respex an’ greetin’s, ma’am. How do, Guv? I do ‘ope as you ain’t forgot th’ cake.”

“Oh, we’ve plenty of cake, Old Un!” laughed Ravenslee.

“An’ water cress an’ jam!” nodded Mrs. Trapes.

“Guv,” said the old man, gripping Ravenslee’s hand, “God bless ye for a true man an’ a noble sport. Ma’am, you’re a angel! Jam, ma’am—you’re a nymp’—you’re two nymp’s—

“‘I oft would cast a rovin’ eye Ere these white ‘airs I grew, ma’am, To see a ‘andsome nymp’ go by, But none s’ fair as you, ma’am.’

“An’ there’s me hand on it, ma’am.”

“My land!” ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, staring; then all at once she laughed, a strange laugh that came and went again immediately, yet left her features a little less grim than usual, as, reaching out, she grasped the old man’s feeble hand.

“I guess you’re only bein’ p’lite,” said she, “but jest for that you’re sure goin’ t’ eat as much cake an’ jam as your small insides can hold.” So saying, she led the way into her small and very neat domain and ushered them into the bright little parlour where the Spider sat already enthroned in that armchair whereon sunflowers rioted. Like the chair, the Spider was somewhat exotic as to socks and tie, and he seemed a trifle irked by stiff cuffs and collar as he sat staring at the green and yellow tablecloth and doing his best not to tread upon the pink hearthrug.