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Then I went home to the little cot in the dormitory of the "home." It would seem that all the world's wife and daughters were to wear nothing but poppies that season. But ours was only a small portion of Rosenfeld's output.
The violinist had seen the tears on Johnny Rosenfeld's white cheeks, and had rushed into rollicking, joyous music. The ward echoed with it. "I'm twenty-one and she's eighteen," hummed the ward under its breath. Miss Wardwell's thin body swayed. "Lord, how I'd like to dance! If I ever get out of this charnel-house!" The medicine-tray lay at Carlotta's elbow; beside it the box of labels.
I'm no bloated aristocrat; I don't have to have a napkin." "Have they told you what the trouble is?" "Back's broke. But don't let that worry you. Dr. Max Wilson is going to operate on me. I'll be doing the tango yet." Sidney's eyes shone. Of course, Max could do it. What a thing it was to be able to take this life-in-death of Johnny Rosenfeld's and make it life again!
As a result, I was put on Rosenfeld's pay-roll for three and a half dollars per week, with half a day's extra pay for night work: the latter had been a necessity three or four nights every week for six months, and was likely to continue for two, maybe three, weeks longer.
On the morning after Sidney had invited K. Le Moyne to take her to walk, Max Wilson came down to breakfast rather late. Dr. Ed had breakfasted an hour before, and had already attended, with much profanity on the part of the patient, to a boil on the back of Mr. Rosenfeld's neck. "Better change your laundry," cheerfully advised Dr. Ed, cutting a strip of adhesive plaster.
It seems as if I can't stand it alone. Oh, Johnny, Johnny!" "Where's Palmer?" K. demanded of Christine. "He's not in yet." "Are you afraid to stay in the house alone?" "No; please go." He ran up the staircase to his room and flung on some clothing. In the lower hall, Mrs. Rosenfeld's sobs had become low moans; Christine stood helplessly over her. "I am terribly sorry," she said "terribly sorry!
If I get a chance, I'm going to beat it while the wind's my way." But, talk as he might, in Johnny Rosenfeld's loyal heart there was no thought of desertion. Palmer had given him a man's job, and he would stick by it, no matter what came. There were some things that Johnny Rosenfeld did not tell his mother.
Good-by to Rosenfeld's now no longer a reality, but rather a memory of idyllic beauty the workroom bright with sunshine and flashing with color, with the faces of the workers bent over the fashioning of rose and poppy, and best of all, the kind hearts and the quick sympathy that blossomed there as luxuriantly as the flowers themselves. Good-by to my four happiest weeks in the workaday world.
Such, at least, were my feelings in those long, beautiful June days that followed close on the "lay-off" at Rosenfeld's. Dear little Bessie! poor unhappy Eunice!
After a few nights she ceased moaning, and settled gradually into a hopeless apathy, while over her deep gray eyes there grew a film of silent misery. Stirred by my fragmentary accounts of Eunice's wretchedness, the generous-hearted Bessie one day suggested that we take her with us to look for a job as soon as the anticipated "lay-off" notice came into effect at Rosenfeld's.
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