CHAPTER XIV

THE QUARREL NEXT DOOR

Josie was right; the song of the frogs meant spring was on the way--in the air--in the ground--in one’s bones. The Leslies’ apartment was hot, hot to suffocation. The janitor, following in the footsteps of most janitors, had made up an extra hot fire in the furnace because it was Sunday and because it was a warm Sunday. When Josie sought the quiet of her own room to escape the reiterated wailings of Mrs. Leslie and to read her precious little book, she found the atmosphere oppressively heavy. To escape it she raised her window and leaned far out, drinking deep of the soft spring air. The little back yard was showing signs of coming to life. A brave little daffodil had poked a green nose up through the black earth and a foolish peach tree actually had a few precocious buds on one of its slender branches.

“They’ll be nipped and deserve to be,” thought Josie. “But I reckon they can’t help it any more than I can resist almost falling out of the window in search of air.”

Someone else was evidently of the same mind, as a window next to the one from which Josie was leaning was raised with some vehemence and an impatient voice, strangely familiar to Josie, exclaimed:

“Gee, but it’s hot in this hole! I hate to think of summer’s coming.”

“And I--ah, how I long for warmth--” drawled a woman’s voice with a foreign accent.

Josie decided it was the Kambourians--mother and son. Then a goodnatured growl from the interior of the room gave evidence that Papa Kambourian was not far off.

“_Nom de Dieu_--close the window, Roy! Do not you understand that Mamma and I have air enough during the week days to last us over the blessed Sabbath. That is the worst of these United States and all who happen to be born here as were you, _mon bon enfant_--air always air!”

“And I! How about me being shut up in a shop all week with a bunch of silly girls, working like a dog--and when I do pull off a deal to have Mamma fall down on her part? I can’t get over it--losing the things.”

“Now, now, boy!” and the goodnatured growl bordered on anger. “Let Mamma be! It was unavoidable. Has she not already wept oceans of tears? What are a few yards of wretched lace and a bit bauble of a gold bag to poor Mamma’s feelings? Let be, _mon fils_, and try again. A few more hauls and we will have enough to set up a small shop in the great metropolis.”

“Not for me! I’m through I tell you--through for good and all. I’m sick of the whole wretched business. You and Mamma can keep on being foreigners all you want but I’m an American boy--almost a man--and I want to pull loose. I could make as much money walking straight as I do crooked.” His voice rose angrily and Josie felt that the boy was on the verge of tears in spite of his assertion that he was almost a man.

“Shut the window!” roared the father. “Such foolish babble is enough to start the whole neighborhood talking!”

“Now, now!” soothed the woman’s voice. “Don’t you and Papa quarrel. I know my little Roy will not what you call pull out yet and leave poor Mamma before she gets enough pretty things to start a little _boutique_. Shut the window like a gentle boy because the air may make Papa sick.”

“How can air make one sick who sits all day on a sidewalk?”

“And now you reproach poor Papa and Mamma because they sit all day and sell the pencils and shoe strings and paperrs,” whined the woman, though it was easy to grasp that the whine in her voice was pure burlesque. “Was I made for such a life? No, I tell you, nevaire!”

At this juncture the window was closed with a vigorous slam and the eavesdropper heard no more. She had heard quite enough however to set her steady little heart a thumping.

“I am almost as big an idiot as my worthy brother in arms, Major Simpson,” Josie took herself to task. “Anybody with a grain of sense would have known all along what I had to open a window to find out. Thank goodness for the over zealous janitor. I’ll give him a generous tip to-morrow. But mercy on us, how carefully I must go now. I can hardly trust myself not to burst in on the Leslies and tell them the whole thing. One thing I know, I must call in help from the police department, as much as I hate to get any clumsy folks mixed up in this. I know what I’ll do--” She made a feverish dive for her hat and jacket, and grabbing up her gloves rushed through the living room, saying in passing:

“Expect me back when you see me but know that I am not running off for more than an hour or so.”

“There now!” gasped Mrs. Leslie. “What a strange girl she is after all. What do you think is the matter, Mary?”

“I think she has a clue and is following it up. All I am wondering is where she got it in such a short time and if she will tell us all about it later on. It is certainly interesting to have a person like Josie to rent a room from us, isn’t it Mother?”

“I should say so; but I wish she wouldn’t be so sudden,” sighed Mrs. Leslie. “I think she ought to tell me what her clue is because I am sure I could help her.”

Mary smiled. She was not so sure. Up to the present her mother had been more of a hinderance than a help to their little lodger. As for suddenness; nobody could have been more sudden than that lady in accepting without question the opinion of old Major Simpson merely because he had come from her county and had presented her with a pink parasol when she was quite a tiny girl.

To a clever girl like Josie, it was an easy matter to find out the name of the reporter on the yellow journal who had spread himself so lavishly on the shoplifting story. First to the newspaper office where, it being a morning paper, the business of the day had not begun. The office was open, however, and a janitor was lazily sweeping the floor and grumbling because the one who took care of a daily newspaper office had no Sunday to speak of. The man at a desk agreed with him as did also the telephone girl whose business it was to handle the private switchboard.

“May I speak with the city editor?” Josie asked meekly.

“Not in yet!” growled the man at the desk. “Anything I can do?”

“Oh, please, if you will be so kind--I want the name and address of the reporter who had the shoplifting story in the paper this morning.”

“Whatcher want with it? It’s against the policy of the paper to divulge names and addresses. The management holds itself responsible for all stories published in its columns and the management has not come down yet.”

“I merely wanted to give the man a chance on another scoop, but since you are evidently not desirous of scoops I’ll look up the other paper.”

“How’s that? Scoop? Give it to me! I’ll get hold of Jimmy Blaine in a minute. The truth of the matter is, young lady, I am the management but it’s policy to keep it dark when anybody is on the war path. I was afraid you were one of the wronged ladies in Jimmy’s story--but I might have known you weren’t.”

“Well, if you can get hold of this Jimmy I’d be very much obliged.”

“What is the nature of your story? Anything like the one this morning?”

“No, this one is a true story. There is mighty little that is true in the scoop of the morning except perhaps the pink parasol and the doughnuts. Would it be against the policy of the paper for you to divulge just what part of the management you are?”

“Ahem! I am part owner and managing editor.”

“Then you’ll do, but please get this Jimmy here as fast as you can so I can tell the tale to both of you at once and save time and breath.”

Jimmy Blaine was forced to uncover his head and listen to his room mate.

“Boss wants you and wants you in a hurry. He says never mind dolling up, but just come along. He’s on the phone now and Miss Celeste says it must be important because he sounds so brisk.” Thus spake Kit Williams, going through the operation on sodden Jimmy known as “cold pigging”, that is, applying a wet sponge to a sleeper’s face.

“Don’t hide! Get up and go to the phone,” insisted Kit as Jimmy snuggled down in the bed clothes and again covered his tousled head.

“Aw gee! Have a heart, cantcher? Don’t go joking me, Kit, that’s a good boy.”

“Well then, lose your job if you want to. What’s it to me? You blooming idiot, didn’t you hear me say that the boss himself is hollerin’ for you. I reckon he’s got a mouthfull to say about that lurid tale you pulled off in this morning’s paper.”

“He saw it before it went in,” growled Jimmy. “If there is any trouble it is up to him. Ain’t he the management?”

“I thought that would wake you up. Now get up and put on your dressing gown--here it is--here are your slippers. Never mind your boudoir cap, just slip along to the phone.”

Jimmy meekly obeyed. There was no use in grumbling when one’s boss was on the line.

“Hello!” he said in a voice as sweet as honey.

“Yes, sir! Yes, sir! Be right down. Don’t let her get away.”

“Breakfast? No sir! What’s breakfast! Never eat on Sunday, that is, breakfast. Be down in a jiffy.”

It was a wide awake Jimmy who, after turning on a cold shower, tore back to his room and began to throw on his clothes like a lightning change vaudeville artist.

“So long, Kit, old fellow. Something big is up but I don’t know what. It’s got something to do with Sherlocko Simpson, I think, but I’ll see you later,” and the youngster was out on the street and running for a trolley in less time than it would have taken the fire department to answer an alarm.