On the block below Kling's in those other days
was the quaint Book Shop owned by Tim Kelsey, the
hunchback, a walking encyclopaedia of knowledge,
much of it as musty and out of date as most of his
books; while overtopping all else in importance, so far
as this story is concerned, was the shabby, old-fashioned
two-story house known the town over as the
Express Office of John and Kitty Cleary, sporting above
its narrow street-door a swinging sign informing inquirers
that trunks were carried for twenty-five cents.

And not only trunks, but all of the movable furniture
up and down the avenue, and most of that from the
adjacent regions, found their way in and out of the
Cleary wagons. Indeed Otto Kling's confidence in
Kitty--and Kitty was really the head of the concern
--was so great that he always refused to allow any of
her rivals to carry his purchases and sales, even at a
reduced price, a temptation seldom resisted by the
economical Dutchman.

Nor did the friendly relations end here. Not only
did Kitty's man Mike hammer up at night the rusty
iron shutters protecting Kling's side window, clean
away the snow before his store, and lend a hand in the
moving of extra-heavy pieces, but he was even known
to wash the windows and kindle a fire.