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Updated: June 9, 2025
She sent a quivering look around that unspeakably messy, choked-up little hole in the wall that was home to Plooie and her. "We have loved each other so much here," said she. Our Square is too poor to be enduringly uncharitable, either in deed or thought. War's resentments died out quickly in us. No longer was Plooie in danger of mob violence.
Several years since?" "Y-yes. Certainly. At Trouville." "You are friends of my countryman, Emile Garin, are you not?" he pursued in his phraseology of extreme precision, with only the faint echo of an accent. "Who?" I said. "Oh, Plooie, you mean. Friends? Well, acquaintances would be more accurate." "He tells me that you, Monsieur, befriended him when he had great need of friends.
"I don't believe it's true at all," averred the Bonnie Lassie loyally. "I don't believe Plooie is a coward. There's some reason why he doesn't go over and help! I want to know what it is." Perceiving that I was expected to provide excuses for the erring one, I did my best. "Over age," I suggested. "He's only thirty-two." "Bless me! He looks sixty. Well physical infirmity."
It is not beyond the bounds of reasonable probability that he had absented himself on purpose. "God hates a coward" is a tenet of Terry's creed. I confess to a certain sympathy with it myself. After all, a harsh lesson might not be amiss for Plooie, the recusant. Composing my soul to a non-intervention policy, I leaned back on my bench, when a pitiful sight ruined my neutrality.
It was very simple and direct, and rather touching. Plooie said: "If one marries themselves?" And she replied: "I believe it well." They kissed solemnly, and their faces, in the gleam of the electric light which at that moment spluttered into ill-timed and tactless activity, were transfigured so that I marveled at the dim splendor of them. But the Bonnie Lassie was scandalized.
Before I could wholly recapture the quaint melody, my efforts would invariably be nullified by the raucous shriek of his trade which had forever fixed the nickname whereby Our Square knew Plooie: "Parapluie-ee-ee-ee-ees
Nevertheless, Plooie prowled about, uttering his cracked and lugubrious cry in the forlorn hope of picking up a parapluie to raccommode. I was one of the few left to hear him, because Mendel, the jeweler, had most inconsiderately gone to view royalty, leaving my unrepaired glasses locked in his shop; otherwise I, too, would have been on the Fifth Avenue curb shouting with the best of them.
"A gentleman, Sally? Impossible. No gentleman would endure such an affront. Look again." "Yessum. It's dat po' white trash dey call Plooie. Mainded yo' umbrella oncet." "My umbrella-mender!" Apologetically but shrewdly Sally opined that the neighborhood of the advancing mob was "no place foh a niggah." With perfect faith in the powers of her superior she added: "You desist 'em, mist'ess."
Henri Dumain, our little old French David who fought the tragic duel of tooth and claw with his German Jonathan in Thornsen's Élite Restaurant, stung him with that most insulting word in any known tongue "Lâche!" and threatened him with uplifted cane; and poor Plooie slunk away.
By common consent we let him alone; he made his rounds unmolested, but also unpatronized. But for Annie Oombrella's prodigies of industry with pail and brush, the little couple in Schepstein's basement would have fared ill. Annie earned for both. In the process, happiness came back to her face. To the fat Rosser twin accrues the credit of a pleasurable discovery about Plooie.
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