O Henry

                        Between Rounds

   THE MAY MOON SHONE BRIGHT upon the private boarding-house of Mrs. 
Murphy. By reference to the almanac a large amount of territory will 
be discovered upon which its rays also fell. Spring was in its heyday, 
with hay fever soon to follow. The parks were green with new leaves 
and buyers for the Western and Southern trade. Flowers and summer-
resort agents were blowing; the air and answers to Lawson were growing 
milder; hand-organs, fountains and pinochle were playing everywhere.
   The windows of Mrs. Murphy's boarding-house were open. A group of 
boarders were seated on the high stoop upon round, flat mats like 
German pancakes.
   In one of the second-floor front windows Mrs. McCaskey awaited her 
husband. Supper was cooling on the table. Its heat went into Mrs. 
McCaskey.
   At nine Mr. McCaskey came. He carried his coat on his arm and his 
pipe in his teeth; and he apologized for disturbing the boarders on 
the steps as he selected spots of stone between them on which to set 
his size 9, width Ds.
   As he opened the door of his room he received a surprise. Instead 
of the usual stove-lid or potato-masher for him to dodge, came only 
words.
   Mr. McCaskey reckoned that the benign May moon had softened the 
breast of his spouse.
   `I heard ye,' came the oral substitutes for kitchenware. `Ye can 
apollygize to riff-raff of the streets for settin' yer unhandy feet on 
the tails of their frocks, but ye'd walk on the neck of yer wife the 
length of a clothes-line without so much as a "Kiss me fut," and I'm 
sure it's that long from rubberin' out the windy for ye and the 
victuals cold such as there's money to buy after drinkin' up yer wages 
at Gallegher's every Saturday evenin', and the gas man here twice to-
day for his.'
   `Woman!' said Mr. McCaskey, dashing his coat and hat upon a chair, 
`the noise of ye is an insult to me appetite. When ye run down 
politeness ye take the mortar from between the bricks of the 
foundations of society. 'Tis no more than exercisin' the acrimony of a 
gentleman when ye ask the dissent of ladies blockin' the way for 
steppin' between them. Will ye bring the pig's face of ye out of the 
windy and see to the food?'
   Mrs. McCaskey arose heavily and went to the stove. There was 
something in her manner that warned Mr. McCaskey. When the corners of 
her mouth went down suddenly like a barometer it usually foretold a 
fall of crockery and tinware.
`Pig's face, is it?' said Mrs. McCaskey, and hurled a stewpan full of 
bacon and turnips at her lord.
   Mr. McCaskey was no novice at repartee. He knew what should follow 
the entree. On the table was a roast sirloin of pork, garnished with 
shamrocks. He retorted with this, and drew the appropriate return of a 
bread pudding in an earthen dish. A hunk of Swiss cheese accurately 
thrown by her husband struck Mrs. McCaskey below one eye. When she 
replied with a well-aimed coffee-pot full of a hot, black, semi-
fragrant liquid the battle, according to courses, should have ended.
   But Mr. McCaskey was no 50 cent table d'hoter. Let cheap Bohemians 
consider coffee the end, if they would. Let them make that faux pas. 
He was foxier still. Finger-bowls were not beyond the compass of his 
experience. They were not to be had in the Pension Murphy; but their 
equivalent was at hand. Triumphantly he sent the granite-ware wash-
basin at the head of his matrimonial adversary. Mrs. McCaskey dodged 
in time. She reached for a flat-iron, with which, as a sort of 
cordial, she hoped to bring the gastronomical duel to a close. But a 
loud, wailing scream downstairs caused both her and Mr. McCaskey to 
pause in a sort of involuntary armistice.
   On the sidewalk at the corner of the house Policeman Cleary was 
standing with one ear upturned, listening to the crash of household 
utensils.
   Tis Jawn McCaskey and his missus at it again,' meditated the 
policeman. `I wonder shall I go up and stop the row. I will not. 
Married folks they are; and few pleasures they have. 'Twill not last 
long. Sure, they'll have to borrow more dishes to keep it up with.'
   And just then came the loud scream below-stairs, betokening fear or 
dire extremity. ` 'Tis probably the cat,' said Policeman Cleary, and 
walked hastily in the other direction.
   The boarders on the steps were fluttered. Mr. Toomey, an insurance 
solicitor by birth and an investigator by profession, went inside to 
analyse the scream. He returned with the news that Mrs. Murphy's 
little boy Mike was lost. Following the messenger, out bounced Mrs. 
Murphy - two hundred pounds in tears and hysterics, clutching the air 
and howling to the sky for the loss of thirty pounds of freckles and 
mischief Bathos, truly; but Mr. Toomey sat down at the side of Miss 
Purdy, milliner, and their hands came together in sympathy. The two 
old maids, Misses Walsh, who complained every day about the noise in 
the halls, inquired immediately if anybody had looked behind the 
clock.
   Major Grigg, who sat by his fat wife on the top step, arose and 
buttoned his coat. `The little one lost?' he exclaimed. `I will scour 
the city.' His wife never allowed him out after dark. But now she 
said: `Go, Ludovic!' in a baritone voice. `Whoever can look upon that 
mother's grief without springing to her relief has a heart of stone.' 
`Give me some thirty or - sixty cents, my love,' said the Major. `Lost 
children sometimes stray far. I may need car-fares.'
   Old man Denny, hall-room, fourth floor back, who sat on the lowest 
step, trying to read a paper by the street lamp, turned over a page to 
follow up the article about the carpenters' strike. Mrs. Murphy 
shrieked to the moon: `Oh, ar-r-Mike, f'r Gawd's sake, where is me 
little bit av a boy?'
   `When'd ye see him last?' asked old man Denny, with one eye on the 
report of the Building Trades League.
   `Oh,' wailed Mrs. Murphy, `'twas yisterday, or maybe four hours 
ago! I dunno. But it's lost he is, me little boy Mike. He was playin' 
on the sidewalk only this mornin' - or was it Wednesday? I'm that busy 
with work 'tis hard to keep up with dates. But I've looked the house 
over from top to cellar, and it's gone he is. Oh, for the love av 
Hiven -'
   Silent, grim, colossal, the big city has ever stood against its 
revilers. They call it hard as iron; they say that no pulse of pity 
beats in its bosom; they compare its streets with lonely forests and 
deserts of lava. But beneath the hard crust of the lobster is found a 
delectable and luscious food. Perhaps a different simile would have 
been wiser. Still, nobody should take offence. We would call no one a 
lobster without good and sufficient claws.
   No calamity so touches the common heart of humanity as does the 
straying of a little child. Their feet are so uncertain and feeble; 
the ways are so steep and strange.
   Major Griggs hurried down to the corner, and up the avenue into 
Billy's place. `Gimme a rye-high,' he said to the servitor. `Haven't 
seen a bow-legged, dirty-faced little devil of a six-year-old lost kid 
around here anywhere, have you?'
   Mr. Toomey retained Miss Purdy's hand on the steps. `Think of that 
dear little babe,' said Miss Purdy, `lost from his mother's side - 
perhaps already fallen beneath the iron hoofs of galloping steeds - 
oh, isn't it dreadful?'
   `Ain't that right?' agreed Mr. Toomey, squeezing her hand. `Say I 
start out and help look for um!'
   `Perhaps,' said Miss Purdy, `you should. But oh, Mr. Toomey, you 
are so dashing - so reckless - suppose in your enthusiasm some 
accident should befall you, then what -'
   Old man Denny read on about the arbitration agreement, with one 
finger on the lines.
   In the second floor front Mr. and Mrs. McCaskey came to the window 
to recover their second wind. Mr. McCaskey was scooping turnips out of 
his vest with a crooked forefinger, and his lady was wiping an eye 
that the salt of the roast pork had not benefited. They heard the 
outcry below, and thrust their heads out of the window.
   'Tis little Mike is lost,' said Mrs. McCaskey in a hushed voice , 
`the beautiful, little, trouble-making angel of a gossoon!'
   `The bit of a boy mislaid?' said Mr. McCaskey leaning out of the 
window. `Why, now, that's bad enough, entirely. The childer; they be 
different. If 'twas a woman I'd be willin', for they leave peace 
behind 'em when they go.'
Disregarding the thrust, Mrs. McCaskey caught her husband's arm.
   `Jawn,' she said sentimentally, `Missis Murphy's little bye is 
lost. 'Tis a great city for losing little boys. Six years old he was. 
Jawn, 'tis the same age our little bye would have been if we had had 
one six years ago.'
   `We never did,' said Mr. McCaskey, lingering with the fact. `But if 
we had, Jawn, think what sorrow would be in our hearts this night, 
with our little Phelan run away and stolen in the city nowheres at 
all.'
   `Ye talk foolishness,' said Mr. McCaskey.` 'Tis Pat he would be 
named, after me old father in Cantrim.'
   `Ye lie!' said Mrs. McCaskey, without anger. `Me brother was worth 
tin dozen bog-trotting McCaskeys. After him would the bye be named.' 
She leaned over the window-sill and looked down at the hurrying and 
bustle below.
   `Jawn,' said Mrs. McCaskey softly, `I'm sorry I was hasty wid ye.'
"Twas hasty puddin', as ye say,' said her husband, `and hurry-up 
turnips and get-a-move-on-ye coffee. 'Twas what ye could call a quick 
lunch, all right, and tell no lie.'
   Mrs. McCaskey slipped her arm inside her husband's and took his 
rough hand in hers.
   `Listen at the cryin' of poor Mrs. Murphy,' she said. ` 'Tis an 
awful thing for a bit of a bye to be lost in this great big city. If 
'twas our little Phelan, Jawn, I'd be breakin' me heart.'
   Awkwardly Mr. McCaskey withdrew his hand. But he laid it around the 
nearing shoulders of his wife.
   `'Tis foolishness, of course,' said he, roughly, `but I'd be cut up 
some meself, if our little - Pat was kidnapped or anything. But there 
never was any childer for us. Sometimes I've been ugly and hard with 
ye, Judy. Forget it.'
They leaned together, and looked down at the heart-drama being acted 
below.
   Long they sat thus. People surged along the sidewalk, crowding, 
questioning, filling the air with rumours and inconsequent surmises. 
Mrs. Murphy ploughed back and forth in their midst; like a soft 
mountain down which plunged an audible cataract of tears. Couriers 
came and went.
   Loud voices and a renewed uproar were raised in front of the 
boarding-house.
   `What's up now, Judy?' asked Mr. McCaskey.
   `'Tis Missis Murphy's voice,' said Mrs. McCaskey, harking. `She 
.says she's after finding little Mike asleep behind the roll of old 
linoleum under the bed in her room.'
   Mr. McCaskey laughed loudly.
   `That's yer Phelan,' he shouted sardonically `Divil a bit would a 
Pat have done that trick if the bye we never had is strayed and stole, 
by the powers, call him Phelan, and see him hide out under the bed 
like a mangy pup.'
   Mrs. McCaskey arose heavily, and went toward the dish closet, with 
the corners of her mouth drawn down.
   Policeman Cleary came back around the corner as the crowd 
dispersed. Surprised, he upturned an ear toward the McCaskey apartment 
where the crash of irons and chinaware and the ring of hurled kitchen 
utensils seemed as loud as before. Policeman Cleary took out his 
timepiece.
   `By the deported snakes!' he exclaimed, `Jawn McCaskey and his lady 
have been fightin' for an hour and a quarter by the watch. The missis 
could give him forty pounds weight. Strength to his arm.'
   Policeman Cleary strolled back around the corner.
   Old man Denny folded his paper and hurried up the steps just as 
Mrs. Murphy was about to lock the door for the night.