“That roll of fiddle-de-dees has cost me about
five hundred dollars,” she said. “It’s
been worth it if it teaches me that I’m an old
fool and that you are two others! If that boy
shows his face here again, I’ll hand him over
to the police.”
However, as it happened, she did nothing of the sort.
At four o’clock that afternoon there was a timid
ring at the doorbell and I answered it. Outside
was Tufik, forlorn and drooping, and held up by main
force by a tall, dark-skinned man with a heavy mustache.
“I bring your boy!” said the mustached
person, smiling. “He has great trouble—sorrow;
he faint with grief.”
I took a good look at Tufik then. He was pale
and shaky, and his new suit looked as if he had slept
in it. His collar was bent and wilted, and the
green necktie had been taken off and exchanged for
a ragged black one.
“Miss Liz!” he said huskily. “I
die; the heart is gone! My parent—”
He broke down again; and leaning against the door
jamb he buried his face in a handkerchief that I could
not believe was one of the lot we had bought only
yesterday. I hardly knew what to do. Tish
had said she was through with the boy. I decided
to close them out in the hallway until we had held
a council; but Tufik’s foot was on the sill,
and the more I asked him to move it, the harder he
wept.
The mustached person said it was quite true.
Tufik’s father had died of the plague; the letter
had come early that morning. Beirut was full of
the plague. He waved the letter at me; but I ordered
him to burn it immediately—on account of
germs. I brought him a shovel to burn it on;
and when that was over Tufik had worked out his own
salvation. He was at the door of Tish’s
room, pouring out to Aggie and Tish his grief, and
offering the black necktie as proof.
We were just where we had started, but minus one hundred
and twenty dollars; for, the black-mustached gentleman
having gone after trying to sell Tish another silk
kimono, I demanded Tufik’s ticket—to
be redeemed—and was met with two empty
hands, outstretched.
“Oh, my friends,—my Miss Tish, my
Miss Liz, my Miss Ag,—what must I say?
I have not the ticket! I have been wikkid—but
for my sister—only for my sister!
She must not die—she so young, so little
girl!”
“Tufik,” said Tish sternly, “I want
you to tell us everything this minute, and get it
over.”
“She ees so little!” he said wistfully.
“And the body of my parent—could
I let it lie and rot in the so hot sun? Ah, no;
Miss Tish, Miss Liz, Miss Ag,—not so.
To-day I take back my ticket, get the money, and send
it to my sister. She will bury my parent, and
then—she comes to this so great America,
the land of my good friends!”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Aggie
sneezed!
