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The following day, about ten o’clock in the morning, a man in a derby hat and with a pair of handcuffs in his outside pocket showed Muffles a paper he took from his coat, and the two went off to the city. When Muffles returned that same night–I had heard he was in trouble and waited for his return–he nodded to me with a smile, and said:

“It’s all right. Pipes went bail.”

He didn’t stop, but walked through to the back room. There he put his arms around his wife. She had sat all day at the window watching for his return, so Bowser told me.

II

One crisp, cool October day, when the maples blazed scarlet and the Bronx was a band of polished silver and the hoar-frost glistened in the meadows, I turned into the road that led to the Shady Side. The outer gate was shut, and all the blinds on the front of the house were closed. I put my hand on the old brass knocker and rapped softly. Bowser opened the door. His eyes looked as if he had not slept for a week.

“What’s the matter–anybody sick?”

“No–dead!” and he burst into tears.

“Not Muffles!”

“No–the Missus.”

“When?”

“Last night. De boss is inside, all broke up.”

I tiptoed across the hall and into the bar-room. He was sitting by a table, his head in his hands, his back toward me.

“Muffles, this is terrible! How did it happen?”

He straightened up and held out his hand, guiding me to a seat beside him. For some minutes he did not speak. Then he said, slowly, ignoring my question, the tears streaming down his cheeks:

“Dis ends me. I ain’t no good widout de Missus. You thought maybe when ye were ’round that I was a runnin’ things; you thought maybe it was me that was lookin’ after de kids and keepin’ ’em clean; you thought maybe when I got pinched and they come near jugging me that some of me pals got me clear–you don’t know nothin’ ’bout it. De Missus did that, like she done everything.”

He stopped as if to get his breath, and put his head in his hands again–rocking himself to and fro like a man in great physical pain. I sat silent beside him. It is difficult to decide what to do or say to a man under such circumstances. His reference to some former arrest arose in my mind, and so, in a perfunctory way–more for something to say than for any purpose of prying into his former life–I asked:

“Was that the time the Pipe Contractor went bail for you?”

He moved his head slightly and without raising it from his hands looked at me from over his clasped fingers.

“What, dat scrape a month ago, when I hid dem goods in de cellar? Naw! Dat was two pals o’ mine. Dey was near pinched and I helped ’em out. Somebody give it away. But dat ain’t noth-in’–Cap’n took care o’ dat. Dis was one o’ me own five year ago. What’s goin’ to become o’ de kids now?” And he burst out crying again.

III

A year passed.

I had been painting along the Thames, lying in my punt, my face up to the sky, or paddling in and out among the pond-lilies. I had idled, too, on the lagoons of my beloved Venice, listening to Luigi crooning the songs he loves so well, the soft air about me, the plash of my gondolier’s oar wrinkling the sheen of the silver sea. It had been a very happy summer; full of color and life. The brush had worked easily, the weather had lent a helping hand; all had been peace and quiet. Ofttimes, when I was happiest, somehow Muffles’s solitary figure rose before me, the tears coursing down his cheeks, and with it that cold silence–a silence which only a dead body brings to a house and which ends only with its burial.