The Room with the Little Door

“That’s me and Mike,” he exclaimed, reverently removing the newspaper covering and thrusting an old tintype into my hands. And then I recognized “Mike,” for he came to see my neighbor every day—in his mother’s arms. We (Mike’s father and I) were neighbors, and neighborly—which are two different things—and often walked together during exercise hours, I listening and he telling of the doings of the little “geezer” and the “tricks me and Mike have turned off together.”

Yes, I knew Mike, and he grew to look for the candy I sent him by Apple Mary, but he never thanked us; and, considering his short two years of life, Mary and I did not expect it. His mother spoke to Mike’s father—on the other side of the bars, no doubt about it. I have heard her! Papa talked back, but Mike only smiled and cooed. Among other things, my neighbor told me that the police “had him right,” and so it seemed, and the day of sentence came round. “Me and Mike” and Mike’s mother exchanged kisses and epithets; then the sheriff began his search. He found the tintype and gave it to Mike’s mother despite angry protests; and then my neighbor made a very foolish move. It was towards his hip pocket; he put up a good fight while it lasted. But he was overpowered and handcuffed and the concealed weapon drawn forth—it was Mike’s little blue shoe. Somehow or other I did not see the rest of it very distinctly.