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But for a moment nothing followed.

“Trouble over there,” thought the rosy Dutchman, and waited. The manager waited too, rubbing his hat and brushing his clothes with the tips of his kidded fingers.

“They do not wish to see him,” slowly concluded the spectator.

“Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap!” quoth the knocker, and M. de la Rue looked up around at the windows opposite and noticed the handsome young Dutchman looking at him.

“Dutch!” said the manager softly, between his teeth.

“He is staring at me,” said Kristian Koppig to himself;–“but then I am staring at him, which accounts for it.”

A long pause, and then another long rapping.

“They want him to go away,” thought Koppig.

“Knock hard!” suggested a street youngster, standing by.

“Rap, rap”–The manager had no sooner recommenced than several neighbors looked out of doors and windows.

“Very bad,” thought our Dutchman; “somebody should make him go off. I wonder what they will do.”

The manager stepped into the street, looked up at the closed window, returned to the knocker, and stood with it in his hand.

“They are all gone out, Monsieur,” said the street-youngster.

“You lie!” said the cynosure of neighboring eyes.

“Ah!” thought Kristian Koppig; “I will go down and ask him”–Here his thoughts lost outline; he was only convinced that he had somewhat to say to him, and turned to go down stairs. In going he became a little vexed with himself because he could not help hurrying. He noticed, too, that his arm holding the stair-rail trembled in a silly way, whereas he was perfectly calm. Precisely as he reached the street-door the manager raised the knocker; but the latch clicked and the wicket was drawn slightly ajar.

Inside could just be descried Madame John. The manager bowed, smiled, talked, talked on, held money in his hand, bowed, smiled, talked on, flourished the money, smiled, bowed, talked on and plainly persisted in some intention to which Madame John was steadfastly opposed.

The window above, too,–it was Kristian Koppig who noticed that,–opened a wee bit, like the shell of a terrapin; Presently the manager lifted his foot and put forward an arm, as though he would enter the gate by pushing, but as quick as gunpowder it clapped–in his face!

You could hear the fleeing feet of Zalli pounding up the staircase.

As the panting mother re-entered her room, “See, Maman,” said ‘Tite Poulette, peeping at the window, “the young gentleman from over the way has crossed!”

“Holy Mary bless him!” said the mother.

“I will go over,” thought Kristian Koppig, “and ask him kindly if he is not making a mistake.”

“What are they doing, dear?” asked the mother, with clasped hands.

“They are talking; the young man is tranquil, but ‘Sieur de la Rue is very angry,” whispered the daughter; and just then–pang! came a sharp, keen sound rattling up the walls on either side of the narrow way, and “Aha!” and laughter and clapping of female hands from two or three windows.

“Oh! what a slap!” cried the girl, half in fright, half in glee, jerking herself back from the casement simultaneously with the report. But the “ahas” and laughter, and clapping of feminine hands, which still continued, came from another cause. ‘Tite Poulette’s rapid action had struck the slender cord that held up an end of her hanging garden, and the whole rank of cigar-boxes slid from their place, turned gracefully over as they shot through the air, and emptied themselves plump upon the head of the slapped manager. Breathless, dirty, pale as whitewash, he gasped a threat to be heard from again, and, getting round the corner as quick as he could walk, left Kristian Koppig, standing motionless, the most astonished man in that street.

“Kristian Koppig, Kristian Koppig,” said Greatheart to himself, slowly dragging up-stairs, “what a mischief you have done. One poor woman certainly to be robbed of her bitter wages, and another–so lovely!–put to the burning shame of being the subject of a street brawl! What will this silly neighborhood say? ‘Has the gentleman a heart as well as a hand?’ ‘Is it jealousy?'” There he paused, afraid himself to answer the supposed query; and then–“Oh! Kristian Koppig, you have been such a dunce!” “And I cannot apologize to them. Who in this street would carry my note, and not wink and grin over it with low surmises? I cannot even make restitution. Money? They would not dare receive it. Oh! Kristian Koppig, why did you not mind your own business? Is she any thing to you? Do you love her? Of course not! Oh!–such a dunce!”