The Deaves Affair Part 2

"Don't expect it," said Evan.

"What are you coming for then?" Deaves demanded.

Evan laughed in an annoyed way. "Well, now that you put it to me, I don't exactly know. I suppose I owe it to myself not to let an old man fall down in the street."

Deaves thought over this quite a long while. Along with his shrewdness there was something childish in the old man. "You're a good boy!" he announced at last.

Evan appreciated that this was an immense concession. "Much obliged,"

he said dryly.

"Just the same, you needn't think you're going to get anything out of me," the old man quickly added.

"I don't."

Having established this point to his satisfaction Deaves seemed disposed to become friendly. "What are you doing out on the street in the middle of the morning?" he asked.

"I might ask the same of you," returned Evan good-naturedly.

"I'm retired. I've a right to take my ease. But all young fellows ought to be at work. Haven't you got any work to do?"

"I'm an artist."

"Pooh! Waste of time!"

Evan laughed. It was useless to get angry at the old boy.

"Why aren't you working at it now?" Deaves demanded to know.

"It wouldn't come to-day," said Evan.

"Stuff and nonsense! You'll never get on that way! Look at me!"

Evan did so, thinking: "I wouldn't be like you for all your millions!"

Deaves went on: "Keep everlastingly at it! That's my motto. That's what's brought me to where I am to-day. I've retired now--though I still have my irons in the fire--but when I was your age I worked early and late. I didn't waste _my_ time fooling round like young men do.

No, sir! My only thought was how to turn everything to advantage. I denied myself everything; lived on two bits a day, I did, and put my savings to work. The cents and the dollars are good and willing little servants if you make them work for you. I watched 'em grow and grow.

That was my young man's fun."

Evan looking at him thought: "You are an object-lesson all right, old man, but not just the way you think."

The current of Deaves' thoughts changed. "You're a strong boy," he said, with a glance at Evan's stout frame. He felt of his biceps through the thin coat. "Hm!" he said scornfully. "I suppose you're proud of your strength. I suppose you spend the best part of your days exercising. Waste of time! Waste of time! A strong man never comes to anything. They're simple, mostly. It's the head that counts! How many of those ruffians did you knock down?"

"Not any," said Evan carelessly. "They ducked."

"Well, you're a good boy. You stick to me, and I'll show you something better than messing in colours. I'll show you how to make money!"

CHAPTER II

A RICH MAN'S HOUSE

They rode up to Fifty-Ninth street, and transferring to a cross-town car, got off at the Plaza. Evan's subconsciousness registered the fact that the little fellow in grey was still travelling their way, but he took no particular notice of him. Deaves led the way to one of the magnificent mansions that embellish the neighbourhood. He handed his bundle to Evan.

"You carry it," he said. "Maud always makes a fuss when I bring bundles home."

"Who is Maud?" asked Evan.

"My son's wife; a great society woman."

"You want me to come in with you then?" said Evan.

"Yes, you're a good boy. I want to give you something."

Evan was surprised. "A dime, or even a quarter!" he thought, smiling to himself. Nevertheless he went willingly enough, filled with a great curiosity.

The house was a showy affair of grey sandstone built in the style of a French chateau. But Evan's trained eye perceived many lapses of taste; it was not even well-built; the window-casings were of wood when they should have been of stone; the side of the house, plainly visible from the street, was of common yellow brick. It looked like a jerry-built palace for a parvenu. Evan wondered how the old money-lender had come to be stuck with it.

"My son's house," said Deaves with a queer mixture of pride and scorn.

"I live with them. Sinful waste!"

He avoided the front door with its grand grill of polished steel. The street widening had shorn off the original areaway of the house, and the service entrance was now a mere slit in the sidewalk with a steep stair swallowed up in blackness below. Down this stair old Simeon Deaves made his way. Evan followed, grinning to himself. It was certainly an odd way for a man to enter his own home.

"We won't meet Maud this way," Deaves said over his shoulder.

The remark called up a picture of Maud before Evan's mind's eye.

In the bas.e.m.e.nt of the great house they met many servants pa.s.sing to and fro, before whom the old man cringed a little. These superior menials turned an indifferent shoulder to him, but stared hard at Evan.

Evan flushed. Insolence in servants galled his pride. "If I paid their wages I'd teach them better manners!" he thought.

Somewhere in the bowels of the house, which was full of pa.s.sages like all ill-planned dwellings, the old man unlocked a door and led Even into a vaultlike chamber without a window. Carefully closing the door behind them he turned on a light.

"This is where I keep all my things," he said innocently. "Maud never comes down here."

Evan looked around. A strange collection of objects met his view; old clothes, old newspapers, old hardware, in extraordinary disorder. It was like the junk room in an old farmhouse. The walls were covered with shelves heaped with objects; old clocks, broken china ornaments, empty cans, pieces of rope, bundles of rags. On the floor besides, were boxes and trunks, some with covers, some without; the latter overflowing with rubbish. Evan wondered whimsically if the closed boxes were filled with shining gold eagles. It would be quite in keeping, he thought. But on second thoughts, no. Your modern miser is too sensible of the advantages of safe deposit vaults.

Deaves found a place for his bundle of old clothes, and seeing Evan looking around, he said with his noiseless laugh, which was no more than a facial contortion:

"You never can tell when a thing will be wanted."

Turning his back on Evan he rummaged for a long time among his shelves.

Evan was somewhat at a loss, for his host appeared to have forgotten him. He was considering quietly leaving the place when the old man finally turned around. He had a small object in his hand which he made as if to offer Evan, but drew it back suddenly and examined it lovingly. It was a pen-knife out of his collection.

"Almost new," said Deaves. "The little blade is missing, but the big blade is perfectly good if you sharpen it. Here," he said, suddenly thrusting it at Evan as if in fear of repenting of his generosity.

"For you."

Evan resisted the impulse to laugh. After all the value of a gift is its value to the giver. He pocketed it with thanks. It would make an interesting souvenir. To produce it would cap the climax of the funny story he meant to make out of this adventure. He turned to go.