``It'd have to be fixed up,'' said Hilda, halting again. ``But I
don't care much for the neighborhood. There are too many
delicatessens here now.''

She went on more rapidly and the old man resumed his sweeping,
muttering crossly into his long, white beard. As she came down
the other side of the street half an hour later, she was watching
Schulte from the corner of her eye. He was leaning on his broom,
watching her. Seeing that she was going to pass without stopping
he called to her and went slowly across the street. ``You would
make good tenants,'' he said. ``I had to sue Bischoff. You can
have it for forty--if you'll pay for the changes you want--you
really won't want any.''

``I was looking at it early this morning,'' replied Hilda.
``There'll have to be at least two hundred dollars spent. But
then I've my eye on another place.''

``Forty's no rent at all,'' grumbled the old man, pulling at his
whiskers.

``I can get a store round in Seventh Street for thirty-five and
that includes three rooms at the back. You've got only one room
at the back.''

``There's a kitchen, too,'' said Schulte.

``A kitchen? Oh, you mean that closet.''

``I'll let you have it for forty, with fifty the second year.''