One On The House by Mary Lasswell Page A

inspired and animated at the prospect of action. With considerable skill she smashed the glass door on the fire-alarm box.
    “Hurry back inside,” she cried. “I have an idea.” They were scarcely inside the door when the wail of a fire siren was heard. “Quick!” she cried, running behind the bar holding her lorgnette up in front of her. “We simply must not lose our heads…it is imperative that we know the young man’s name.” She peered at the dim liquor license fastened to the mirror back of the bar with Scotch tape. “Assuming this recumbent person to be the owner, his name is Timothy Rafferty!”
    “One thing sure,” Mrs. Feeley rushed to the door as the firemen piled off the truck, “He ain’t no Greek!”
    “Where’s the fire?” the firemen dashed through the door. Everyone’s tongue was paralyzed.
    “It is an emergency! Not a fire!” Miss Tinkham said at last.
    “Oh yeah? Who smashed the glass?”
    “This is no time for Gestapo methods!” Miss Tinkham said haughtily. “This young man is dying and we demand that he be taken to the hospital at once.” She led the way behind the bar where Timothy Rafferty lay in something less than fighting trim.
    “Jeez! He don’t look good!”
    “That, my good man, is a masterpiece of understatement. Put him in your fire-wagon or call the ambulance at once!”
    “Easy does it, sister!” The fireman grinned. “Whyn’t you call the police ambulance instead o’ gettin’ us out in the heat o’ the day?”
    “Because we had no small change…and this is a pay telephone. We are taxpayers and entitled to service.” Two firemen placed Timothy on a stretcher while the first one called the ambulance. Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen had not unglued their lips…they gazed in awe at Miss Tinkham, as regal and aloof as an elevator starter.
    “I’ll start takin’ down the vital statistics.” The fireman opened a little black book. Miss Tinkham began to squirm. Just then the interne from the ambulance came in, flicked a glance at Timothy, and said:
    “Busted appendix. Gangrene.” The stretcher bearers started out the door with their load.
    “One of you relatives will have to sign him in,” he said.
    Mrs. Feeley started to open her mouth, then thought better of it.
    Mrs. Rasmussen handed Miss Tinkham the fifty-cent piece.
    “Miss Tinkham better go…she’s the one with the college.”
    “Take a bearin’,” Mrs. Feeley whispered, “so’s you can find your way back!” Miss Tinkham nodded grimly and looked wildly around her as the interne hustled her towards the door.
    “You’ll be here when I come back?”
    “Where else?” Mrs. Feeley shrugged.

Chapter 10
     
    “W HAT DON’T HAPPEN IN TEN YEARS CAN HAPPEN IN ten seconds.” Mrs. Rasmussen’s legs folded up under her and she sat down on the nearest chair.
    “Don’t know how long we can bluff this through,” Mrs. Feeley said, “but it’s a roof over our heads for tonight. I’ll think for today an’ God’ll think for tomorrow! But it was Tinkham done the thinkin’…she sure can use that noggin.”
    “Reckon she’ll find her way back?” Mrs. Rasmussen said.
    “With that tongue in her head? She’s likely to be squired home with a police escort, sireens screamin’ an’ all! Let’s case the joint.”
    Mrs. Feeley rose and began a methodical analysis of the situation. She walked behind the bar and pulled one of the beer taps, not without first placing a glass under it. To her delight a golden fluid flowed out, topped by creamy foam.
    “I knew I hadn’t forgot how! Bring your glasses. I reckon this one’s on the house!” Old-Timer and Mrs. Rasmussen held out their glasses, goggle-eyed at the sight of Manna in the desert.
    “Nothin’ ever tasted better in my whole life,” Mrs. Feeley said. “Let’s get to work.” She walked into the back room and glanced at the tumbled canvas cot. An army uniform with multi-colored shoulder patches hung on a hook behind the door alongside of