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Updated: May 14, 2025
To give it all up and become his younger brother's assistant even if it meant, as it would, better hours and more money would be to submerge his identity. He could not bring himself to it. "I guess I'll stay where I am," he said. "They know me around here, and I know them. By the way, will you leave this envelope at Mrs. McKee's? Maggie Rosenfeld is ironing there to-day. It's for her."
Rosenfeld? She's your aunt, isn't she?" "She thinks any woman's a fool to take up with a man." "You're giving me a terrible responsibility, Tillie, if you're asking my advice." "No'm. I'm asking what you'd do if it happened to you. Suppose you had no people that cared anything about you, nobody to disgrace, and all your life nobody had really cared anything about you.
Johnny Rosenfeld, who had started life with few illusions, was in danger of losing such as he had. One such night Christine put in, lying wakefully in her bed, while the clock on the mantel tolled hour after hour into the night. Palmer did not come home at all. He sent a note from the office in the morning: "I hope you are not worried, darling.
If she raises her prices she can't make my new foulard." Tillie sat at the table, her faded blue eyes fixed on the back yard, where her aunt, Mrs. Rosenfeld, was hanging out the week's wash of table linen. "I don't know as it's so selfish," she reflected. "We've only got one life. I guess a body's got the right to live it." Mrs. McKee eyed her suspiciously, but Tillie's face showed no emotion.
If there's any way to make a mistake, she makes it." It was after eight when Sidney found Johnny Rosenfeld. "You here in the ward, Johnny!" she said. Suffering had refined the boy's features. His dark, heavily fringed eyes looked at her from a pale face. But he smiled up at her cheerfully. "I was in a private room; but it cost thirty plunks a week, so I moved. Why pay rent?"
He meant for her, that Christmas morning, all that the other men were not to their weakness strength, courage, daring, power. Johnny Rosenfeld lay back on the pillows and watched her face. "When I was a kid," he said, "and ran along the Street, calling Dr. Max a dude, I never thought I'd lie here watching that door to see him come in. You have had trouble, too.
In the wreck of the car the lamps had not been extinguished, and by their light he made out Howe, swaying dizzily. "Anybody underneath?" "The chauffeur. He's dead, I think. He doesn't answer." The other members of O'Hara's party had crawled down the bank by that time. With the aid of a jack, they got the car up. Johnny Rosenfeld lay doubled on his face underneath.
Johnny Rosenfeld, driving Palmer's car, took to falling asleep at the wheel in broad daylight, and voiced his discontent to his mother. "You never know where you are with them guys," he said briefly. "We start out for half an hour's run in the evening, and get home with the milk-wagons. And the more some of them have had to drink, the more they want to drive the machine.
It was that bete noir of the playwright, an ensemble; K. Le Moyne and Sidney, Palmer Howe, Christine, Tillie, the younger Wilson, Joe, even young Rosenfeld, all within speaking distance, almost touching distance, gathered within and about the little house on a side street which K. at first grimly and now tenderly called "home."
It was K. who, seeing he would no longer notice, ordered the screens to be set around the bed, K. who drew the coverings smooth and folded the boy's hands over his breast. The violin-player stood by uncertainly. "How very young he is! Was it an accident?" "It was the result of a man's damnable folly," said K. grimly. "Somebody always pays." And so Johnny Rosenfeld paid.
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