"So they left you and Sim Phinney to keep house, did they, Hiram?" observed Wingate.
"They did. And, for a spell, we figgered on bein' free from too much style.
"After they'd gone we loafed into the settin' room or libr'ry, or whatever you call it, and come to anchor in a couple of big lazy chairs.
"'Now,' says I, takin' off my coat, 'we can be comf'table.'
"But we couldn't. In bobs a servant girl to know if we 'wanted anything.' We didn't, but she looked so shocked when she see me in my shirt sleeves that I put the coat on again, feelin' as if I'd ought to blush. And in a minute back she comes to find out if we was SURE we didn't want anything. Sim was hitchin' in his chair.
Between 'nerves' and Archibald, his temper was raw on the edges.
"'Say,' he bursts out, 'you look kind of pale to me. What you need is fresh air. Why don't you go take a walk?'
"The girl looked at him with her mouth open.
"'Oh,' says she, 'I couldn't do that, thank you, sir. That would leave no one but the cook and the kitchen girl. And the master said you was to be made perfectly comf'table, and--'
"'Yes,' says Sim, dry, 'I heard him say it. And we can't be comf'table with you shut up in the house this nice evenin'. Go and take a walk, and take the cook and stewardess with you. Don't argue about it. I'm skipper here till the boss gets back. Go, the three of you, and go NOW. D'ye hear?'
"There was a little more talk, but not much. In five minutes or so the downstairs front door banged, and there was gigglin' outside.
"'There,' says Simeon, peelin' off HIS coat and throwin' himself back in one chair with his feet on another one. 'Now, by Judas, I'm goin' to be homey and happy like poor folks. I don't wonder that Harriet woman's got nerves. Darn style, anyhow! Pass over that cigar box, Hiram.'
"'Twas half an hour later or so when Margaret, the nursemaid, came downstairs. I'd almost forgot her. We was tame and toler'ble contented by that time. Phinney called to her as she went by the door.
"'Is that young one asleep?' he asked.
"'Yes, sir,' says she, 'he is. Is there anything I can do? Did you want anything?'
"Simeon looks at me. 'I swan to man, it's catchin'!' he says.
'They've all got it. No, we don't want anything, except-- What's the matter? YOU don't need fresh air, do you?'
"The girl looked as if she'd lost her last friend. Her pretty face was pale and her eyes was wet, as if she'd been cryin'.
"'No, sir,' says she, puzzled. 'No, sir, thank you, sir.'
"'She's tired out, that's all,' says I. I swan, I pitied the poor thing. 'You go somewheres and take a nap,' I told her. 'Me and my friend won't tell.'
"Oh, no, she couldn't do that. It wa'n't that she was tired--no more tired than usual--but she'd been that troubled in her mind lately, askin' our pardon, that she was near to crazy.
"We was sorry for that, but it didn't seem to be none of our business, and she was turnin' away, when all at once she stops and turns back again.
"'Might I ask you gintlemen a question?' she says, sort of pleadin'. 'Sure I mane no harm by it. Do aither of you know a man be the name of Michael O'Shaughnessy?'
"Me and Sim looked at each other. 'Which?' says I. 'Mike O' who?' says Simeon.
"'Aw, don't you know him?' she begs. 'DON'T you know him? Sure I hoped you might. If you'd only tell me where he is I'd git on me knees and pray for you. O Mike, Mike! why did you leave me like this? What'll become of me?'
"And she walks off down the hall, coverin' her face with her hands and cryin' as if her heart was broke.
"'There! there!' says Simeon, runnin' after her, all shook up.
He's a kind-hearted man--especially to nice-lookin' females.
'Don't act so,' he says. 'Be a good girl. Come right back into the settin' room and tell me all about it. Me and Cap'n Baker ain't got nerves, and we ain't rich, neither. You can talk to us.
Come, come!'
"She didn't know how to act, seemingly. She was like a dog that's been kicked so often he's suspicious of a pat on the head. And she was cryin' and sobbin' so, and askin' our pardon for doin' it, that it took a good while to get at the real yarn. But we did get it, after a spell.
"It seems that the girl--her whole name was Margaret Sullivan--had been in this country but a month or so, havin' come from Ireland in a steamboat to meet the feller who'd kept comp'ny with her over there. His name was Michael O'Shaughnessy, and he'd been in America for four years or more, livin' with a cousin in Long Island City. And he'd got a good job at last, and he sent for her to come on and be married to him. And when she landed 'twas the cousin that met her. Mike had drawn a five-thousand-dollar prize in the Mexican lottery a week afore, and hadn't been seen sence.
"So poor Margaret goes to the cousin's to stay. And she found them poor as Job's pet chicken, and havin' hardly grub enough aboard to feed the dozen or so little cousins, let alone free boarders like her. And so, havin' no money, she goes out one day to an intelligence office where they deal in help, and puts in a blank askin' for a job as servant girl. 'Twas a swell place, where bigbugs done their tradin', and there she runs into Cousin Harriet, who was a chronic customer, always out of servants, owin' to the complications of Archibald and nerves. And Harriet hires her, because she was pretty and would work for a shavin' more'n nothin', and carts her right off to Connecticut. And when Margaret sets out to write for her trunk, and to tell where she is, she finds she's lost the cousin's address, and can't remember whether it's Umpty-eighth Street or Tin Can Avenue.
"'And, oh,' says she, 'what SHALL I do? The mistress is that hard to please, and the child is that wicked till I want to die. And I have no money and no friends. O Mike! Mike!' she says. 'If you only knew you'd come to me. For it's a good heart he has, although the five thousand dollars carried away his head,' says she.
