CHAPTER III.
Kitty Cleary's wide sidewalk, littered with trunks, and her narrow, choked-up office, its window hung with theatre bills and chowder-party posters, all of which were in full view of Kling's doorway, was the half-way house of any one who had five minutes to spare; it was inside its walls that closer greetings awaited those who, even with the thinnest of excuses, made bold to avail themselves of her hospitality.
Drivers from the livery-stable next door, where Kitty kept her own two horses; the policeman on the beat; the night-watchman from the big store on 28th Street, just off duty, or just going on; the newsman in the early morning, who would use her benches on which to rearrange his deliveries--all were welcome as long as they behaved themselves.

When they did not--and once or twice such a thing had occurred--she would throw wide the door and, with a quick movement of her right thumb, order them out, a look in her eye convincing the culprits at once that they might better obey.
Never a day passed but there was a pot of coffee simmering away at the back of the kitchen stove.

Indeed, hot coffee was Kitty's standby.

Many a night when she was up late poring over her delivery book, getting ready for the next day's work, a carriage or cab would drive into the livery-stable next door, and she would send her husband out to bring in the coachman.
"Half froze, he is, waitin' outside Sherry's or Delmonico's, and nobody thinkin' of what he suffers.

Go, git him, John, dear, and I'll stir up the fire.