Thursday. That’s easy to remember."
With caution, he said, "Have you had good luck signing people up?"
"Not too awfully good," she said, with a wry smile. Today she did not seem so tired; she wore a blue-gray smock, flat heels, and she lacked the frailness, the aura of the aging spinster lady who kept an altered cat and read detective novels. Today she reminded him more of active churchwomen who put on charity bazaars. The size of the house, the number of doorbells and mailboxes, suggested that she earned at least part of her livelihood as a landlady. Apparently she had divided up her old house into separate apartments.
"Offhand," he said, "can you recall anybody I might know who’s signed up? It would give me confidence if I knew somebody in the class."
"I’d have to look in my book," she said. "Do you want to step inside and wait while I look?"
"Surely," he said.
Mrs. Keitelbein passed down the corridor, into the room at the end. When she did not reappear he followed.
The size of the room surprised him; it was a great drafty empty auditorium-like place, with a fireplace that had been converted to a gas heater, an overhead chandelier, chairs pushed together in a group at one end, and a number of yellow-painted doors on one side and high wide windows on the other. At a bookshelf, Mrs. Keitelbein stood holding a ledger, the kind bookkeepers usually used.
"I can’t find it," she said disarmingly, closing the ledger. "I have it written down, but in all the confusion—" She gestured at the disorderly room. "We’re trying to get it set up for the first meeting. Chairs, for instance. We’re short on chairs. And we need a blackboard ... but the grammar school has promised us one." Suddenly she caught hold of his arm. "Listen, Mr. Gumm," she said. "There’s a heavy oak desk I want to get upstairs from the basement. I’ve been trying to get somebody all day long to come in and help Walter—my son—get it upstairs. Do you think you could take one end? Walter thinks that two men could get it up here in a few minutes. I tried to lift one end, but I couldn’t."
"I’d be glad to," he said. He took off his coat and laid it over the back of a chair.
A gangling, grinning teen-ager ambled into the room; he wore a white cheer-leader sweater, blue jeans, and shiny black oxfords. "Hi," he said shyly.
After she had introduced them, Mrs. Keitelbein herded them down a flight of dishearteningly steep, narrow stairs, to a basement of damp concrete and exposed wiring, empty fruit jars matted with cobwebs, discarded furniture and mattresses, and an old-fashioned washtub.
The oak desk had been dragged almost to the stairs.
"It’s a wonderful old desk," Mrs. Keitelbein said, hovering critically about. "I want to sit at it when I’m not at the blackboard. This was my father’s desk —Walter’s grandfather."
Walter said, in a croaking tenor voice, "It weighs around one-fifty. Pretty evenly distributed, except the back’s heavier, I think. We can probably tip it, so we can clear the overhead. We can get our hands under it okay; I’ll get hold first with my back to it, and then when I get my end up, you can get your hands under it. Okay?" He already had knelt down at his end, reaching behind him to take hold. "Then when it’s up, I’ll get my grip."
From his years of active military life, Ragle prided himself on his physical agility. But by the time he had raised his end of the desk waist-high, he was red-faced and panting. The desk swayed as Walter got his grip. At once Walter set off for the stairs; the desk twisted in Ragle’s hands as Walter climbed the stairs.
Three times they had to set the desk down on the stairs, once for Ragle to rest, twice because the desk failed to clear the top and had to be taken in a different grip. At last they had it up and into the big drafty room; with a thump the desk dropped from their stiff fingers, and that was that.
"I certainly do appreciate your kindness," Mrs. Keitelbein said,
With caution, he said, "Have you had good luck signing people up?"
"Not too awfully good," she said, with a wry smile. Today she did not seem so tired; she wore a blue-gray smock, flat heels, and she lacked the frailness, the aura of the aging spinster lady who kept an altered cat and read detective novels. Today she reminded him more of active churchwomen who put on charity bazaars. The size of the house, the number of doorbells and mailboxes, suggested that she earned at least part of her livelihood as a landlady. Apparently she had divided up her old house into separate apartments.
"Offhand," he said, "can you recall anybody I might know who’s signed up? It would give me confidence if I knew somebody in the class."
"I’d have to look in my book," she said. "Do you want to step inside and wait while I look?"
"Surely," he said.
Mrs. Keitelbein passed down the corridor, into the room at the end. When she did not reappear he followed.
The size of the room surprised him; it was a great drafty empty auditorium-like place, with a fireplace that had been converted to a gas heater, an overhead chandelier, chairs pushed together in a group at one end, and a number of yellow-painted doors on one side and high wide windows on the other. At a bookshelf, Mrs. Keitelbein stood holding a ledger, the kind bookkeepers usually used.
"I can’t find it," she said disarmingly, closing the ledger. "I have it written down, but in all the confusion—" She gestured at the disorderly room. "We’re trying to get it set up for the first meeting. Chairs, for instance. We’re short on chairs. And we need a blackboard ... but the grammar school has promised us one." Suddenly she caught hold of his arm. "Listen, Mr. Gumm," she said. "There’s a heavy oak desk I want to get upstairs from the basement. I’ve been trying to get somebody all day long to come in and help Walter—my son—get it upstairs. Do you think you could take one end? Walter thinks that two men could get it up here in a few minutes. I tried to lift one end, but I couldn’t."
"I’d be glad to," he said. He took off his coat and laid it over the back of a chair.
A gangling, grinning teen-ager ambled into the room; he wore a white cheer-leader sweater, blue jeans, and shiny black oxfords. "Hi," he said shyly.
After she had introduced them, Mrs. Keitelbein herded them down a flight of dishearteningly steep, narrow stairs, to a basement of damp concrete and exposed wiring, empty fruit jars matted with cobwebs, discarded furniture and mattresses, and an old-fashioned washtub.
The oak desk had been dragged almost to the stairs.
"It’s a wonderful old desk," Mrs. Keitelbein said, hovering critically about. "I want to sit at it when I’m not at the blackboard. This was my father’s desk —Walter’s grandfather."
Walter said, in a croaking tenor voice, "It weighs around one-fifty. Pretty evenly distributed, except the back’s heavier, I think. We can probably tip it, so we can clear the overhead. We can get our hands under it okay; I’ll get hold first with my back to it, and then when I get my end up, you can get your hands under it. Okay?" He already had knelt down at his end, reaching behind him to take hold. "Then when it’s up, I’ll get my grip."
From his years of active military life, Ragle prided himself on his physical agility. But by the time he had raised his end of the desk waist-high, he was red-faced and panting. The desk swayed as Walter got his grip. At once Walter set off for the stairs; the desk twisted in Ragle’s hands as Walter climbed the stairs.
Three times they had to set the desk down on the stairs, once for Ragle to rest, twice because the desk failed to clear the top and had to be taken in a different grip. At last they had it up and into the big drafty room; with a thump the desk dropped from their stiff fingers, and that was that.
"I certainly do appreciate your kindness," Mrs. Keitelbein said,
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