The Postmaster Part 19

But 'twas no use. What we must do was make that loft "quaint," and old-fashioned, and the like of that. I didn't understand-and so on.

"All right," says I, "maybe I don't; but I do understand this: Judgin'

by the amount of hard cash you've spent for lace tuckers and doilies, and the bill them stairs and panelin's and candlesticks'll come to, I don't see a profit on the Pilgrim Curio Mothers' Exchange in ten year big enough to cover a five-cent piece."

He'd risk the profit. Besides, there was another reason for the stairs, and such. To get to 'em all, the rich folks would have to go right through the store; and if they didn't buy anything upstairs they would down, sure and sartin. He was figgerin' on catchin' the transient trade, the automobile trade; and all around the foot of the stairs we'd have temptin' lunches put up and set out, and bottles of ginger ale and boxes of cigars, and so forth, and so on. He preached for half an hour, windin' up with:

"Anyhow, Skipper, if the curio shop should lose money-which it won't-it will bring customers to the Ostable Grocery, Dry Goods, Boots and Shoes, and Fancy Goods Store, which is the main thing; that and keepin' the coin in the United States instead of shippin' it to Armenia. The embroideries and laces are by-products, as you might say; and if a plant comes out even on its by-products, it's a payin' proposition."

He had me there. I didn't know a by-product from a salt herrin'; so I shut up.

The "Old Colony Women's Exchange and Curio Room," which was the name he finally picked out, opened at the end of a fortni't. Jacobs had advertised it in the papers, and put signs for miles up and down the main roads, let alone tellin' every well-off summer woman within reachin' distance. And, almost from the very start, it done well. The loft was crowded 'most every afternoon; and sometimes there'd be as many as three automobiles anch.o.r.ed alongside our main platform.

At the end of the fust month, the Exchange had cleared-cleared, mind you-over two hundred dollars; and Jim Henry was crowin' over me like a Shanghai rooster over a bantam. He'd had another happy thought, and had added "antiques" to the stock in the loft; and the prices he got for lame chairs and rheumatic tables was somethin' scandalous. But it wa'n't all joy. There was two things that troubled him.

One of the things was that the supply of knittin' and fancywork was givin' out. Likewise the "antiques." Of course, there was some on hand.

Aunt Susannah Cahoon's yeller and black mittens, ear lappets, and tippets hadn't sold, and wa'n't likely to; and Abinadab Saint's alabaster whale-oil lamp with the crack in it, that his Great-uncle Peleg brought home from sea, hadn't been grabbed to any extent. But these were the exceptions. 'Most all the good stuff had gone; and, though Jacobs had raked the county with a fine-tooth comb, as you might say, the reg'lar dealers from Boston had raked it ahead of him, and there wa'n't any "antiques" left.

There was several reasons for the shortage in fancywork. One was that the knitters and tatters couldn't turn it out fast enough; and, moreover, the season for church fairs was settin' in, and the heft of the females, bein' reg'lar members in good standin', _had_ to tack ship and go to helpin' their meetin'-houses. So our stock was gettin' low, and Jim Henry was worried.

The other thing that worried him was that we couldn't get the right kind of help to sell the stuff. He couldn't tend to it himself, bein' too busy otherwise. Mary had the post-office department on her hands. The clerk and the delivery boys wa'n't fitted for the job at all; and, as for me, I couldn't sell a blue sugar bowl without a cover for seven dollars and take the money. I knew the one that bought it was perfectly satisfied, but I couldn't do it; I ain't built that way.

"It's no use, Jim Henry," says I. "I may be foolish, but I have ideas about some things; and it's my notion that sartin kinds of folks are fitted by nature for sartin kinds of things. Now, Cape Codders they're fitted for seafarin', and such; and New Yorkers and Chicagoers, like you, are fitted for stock-brokin' and storekeepin'; and Italians for hand organs, and diggin' streets, and singin' in opera. And when it comes to sellin' secondhand stuff or keepin' a p.a.w.nshop, there's-"

"Rubbish!" he snaps. "A while ago, you'd have said that the embroidery trade was cornered by the Armenians. We've proved that's a fairy tale, ain't we? I've got some ideas myself. I know the kind of person I want to run that Exchange, and, sooner or later, I'll find him-or her.

Meantime, we'll have to do the best we can; and I'll take it as a favor if you'll let up on the hammer exercise."

I wa'n't sure what he meant by the "hammer exercise"; but 'twas plain enough that them "by-products" was a sore subject, and that he was worried.

However, he wa'n't the only worried lace dealer in the neighborhood. The Old Colony Exchange had made good in one direction, anyhow. It had knocked the embroidery peddlin' business higher'n a kite. Where there used to be a dozen suitcase luggers paradin' through the town, now you scarcely sighted one; and that one looked pretty sick and discouraged.

The home market had smashed foreign compet.i.tion for the time bein'; that much was pretty sure. But our stock kept gettin' lower and lower, and the auto crowds begun to go by now instead of stoppin'. And the few that did stop hardly ever bought anything unless Jim Henry himself was there to hypnotize 'em into it.

One mornin' I came to the store pretty late, and found our clerk talkin'

to a dark-complected chap with curly hair and a suitcase. I didn't shove my bows into the talk; but, when 'twas over, I asked the clerk what the critter wanted. He laughed.

"Oh, he's the last survivor of the peddlin' crew," he says. "He ain't sold a thing, and he's goin' back to Boston right off. I told him he might as well. He asked a lot of questions about the Exchange, and I took him upstairs and showed him around."

"You did?" says I. "What for?"

"Oh, just to let him see what he was up against, that's all. He was a pretty decent feller-some of them Armenians ain't so bad-and I pitied him. He was awful discouraged. He'd heard Mr. Jacobs had been tryin' to hire a salesman for up there; and he hinted that he'd kind of like the job."

"Did, hey?" says I. "Well, it's a good thing for you and him that Mr.

Jacobs didn't catch you. He'd sooner have a snake on the premises than one of them peddlers. What else did he say? Anything?"

Why, yes. It developed that he'd said a good deal. Asked where we got our stuff, and so on. I judged 'twas a providence that I come in when I did, or that clerk would have told every last word he knew. I didn't say anything to Jim Henry. No use frettin' him unnecessary.

Three days after that the Injun showed up. I don't know as you know it, but there are a few Injuns left on the Cape-half-breeds, or three-quarters, they are mostly; and they live up around Coha.s.set Narrows, or off in the woods in those lat.i.tudes. This one was an old feller, black-haired, of course, and kind of fleshy, with a hook nose and skin the color of gingerbread. I heard talk upstairs in the Exchange; and, when I went aloft, I found him and Jim Henry settin'

among the by-products, and as confidential as a couple of rats in a schooner's hold. Soon as Jacobs seen me, he sung out for me to heave alongside.

"Look at that, Cap'n Zeb," he says. "What do you think of that?"

I took what he handed me, and looked at it. 'Twas a piece of handmade lace-a centerpiece, I believe they call it-and 'twas mighty well done.

"Think of it?" says I. "Well, I ain't much of a judge, but I'd call it a pretty slick article. Who made it?"

The old black-haired chap answered.

"My sister," he says. "She make 'em. Make 'em plenty."

"Bully for her!" says I. "She's the lady we've been lookin' for. Maybe she make some more; hey?"

He grinned; and Jacobs mentioned for me to clear out; so I done it. He and old Gingerbread Face stayed aloft in that Exchange for upward of an hour; and, when they came down, Jim Henry went with him as fur as the door. When the stranger had gone, Jim turns to me and stuck out his hand.

"Skipper," says he, grinnin' like a punkin lantern, "shake! I've got it."

"What have you got?" I asked. I was a little mite provoked at bein' sent below so unceremonious. "What have you got-Asiatic cholery? Thought you wouldn't have nothin' to do with Armenians."

"Armenians be hanged!" says he. "That's no Armenian. He's an Indian, a full-blooded Indian, or pretty near it. And his family is about the only full-bloods left. There's a colony of them up the Cape a ways; and it seems that they pick berries in the summer, and put in their winters turnin' out stuff like that centerpiece. He heard about the Exchange, and he's come way down here to see if we bought such things. I told him we bought 'em with bells on, and he'll be back here to-morrow with another load."

Sure enough, he was, load and all; and 'twould have astonished you to see what fust-cla.s.s fancywork his sister and the rest of the squaws turned out. Jacobs bought the whole lot, and ordered more; said he'd take all the tribe could scare up; and old Gingerbread-his American name, so he said, was Rose, Solomon Rose-went away happy. When I found what Jim Henry had paid him for the plunder, I didn't blame Rose for bein' joyful.

But Jacobs didn't care. He was all excitement and hurrah again. He had a new addition made to the Exchange sign. 'Twas "The Old Colony Women's Exchange, Curio Room, and Indian Exhibit" now; and inside of two days the Burke Smythes and their friends was callin' reg'lar, the auto parties was rollin' up to the door, and the money was rollin' in. Injun embroidery was somethin' new; and the summer gang snapped at it like bullfrogs at a red rag.

Then that partner of mine was seized violent with another rush of ideas to the head. I'm blessed if he didn't hire old Rose-the "Last of the Mohicans," he called him, among other ridiculous and outlandish names-to spend his days in that Injun Exchange loft. Paid him ten dollars a week, he did, just to set there and look the part. 'Twas a sinful waste of money, 'cordin' to my notion; but Jim Henry shut me up like a huntin'-case watch-with a snap.

"Who said he could sell?" he wanted to know. "I didn't, did I? I don't know that he can't-he's shrewd enough when it comes to sellin' us the stuff he brings with him; but if he don't sell a fifty-cent article-"

"Which he won't," I interrupted; "for there's nothin' less than two-seventy-five _in_ the robbers' den, and you know it. How you have the face to charge-"

"Will you be quiet?" he wanted to know. "As I say, whether he sells or not, he's wuth his wages twice over. Can't you understand? Just oblige me by rubbin' your brains with scourin' soap or somethin', and _try_ to understand. All the auto bunch ain't lambs; some of them-the males especially-are a fairly cagey collection; and there's been doubts expressed concernin' the genuineness of our Injun exhibit. But with old Uncas-with the Last of the Mohicans himself right on deck as a livin'

guarantee, why, we could sell clam-sh.e.l.ls as small change from Sittin'

Bull's wampum belt, and never raise a sacrilegious question even from a Unitarian freethinker. It's a cinch."

"See here, Jim Henry," says I, "if this thing's a fraud, I won't have anything to do with it."

"Neither will I," says he, emphatic. "Frauds don't pay, not in the long run. But grandmother's genuine antiques and the A-number-one, Simon-pure embroideries of the n.o.ble red man-or woman-pay, and don't you forget it."

They did pay; and old Mohican himself was a payin' investment, too, in spite of my doubts and Jeremiah prophesyin'. He made a ten-strike with every female that hit that loft. They said he was so "quaint," and "odd," and "pathetic." Mrs. Burke Smythe vowed there was somethin' "big"

and "great" about him-meanin' his nose or his boots, I presume likely-and, somehow or other, though he didn't look like a salesman, he sold. And every week or so he'd take a day off and go back home, to return with a fresh supply of tidies, and lace, and gimcracks. I changed my mind about Injuns. I see right off that all the yarns I'd read about 'em was lies. They didn't murder nor scalp their enemies-they smothered 'em with lamp mats.

And 'twa'n't fancywork alone that the Rose critter fetched back from these home v'yages of his. He struck an "antique" vein somewheres in the reservation; and not a week went by that he didn't resurrect an old bedstead or a table or a spinnin' wheel or somethin', and fetched 'em down in an old wagon towed by an old white horse. The "children of the forest"-which was another of Jim Henry's names for the Injuns and half-breeds-didn't give up these things for nothin'; far from it. We had to pay as much as if they was made of solid silver; but we sold 'em at gold prices, so that part was all right.

And every other day Jacobs would ask me what I thought of "by-products"

now. As for Armenian compet.i.tion, it was dead. There wa'n't any.

Well, three more weeks drifted along, and the summer season was 'most over. Then, one Tuesday mornin', old Rose, the Mohican, didn't show up.

He'd gone away on Friday cal'latin' to be back Monday with a fresh lot of "antiques" and centerpieces; but he wa'n't. And Tuesday and Wednesday pa.s.sed, and he didn't come. Jim Henry was awful worried. We needed more stock, and we needed our Injun curio; and nothin' would do but I must turn myself into a relief expedition and hunt him up.

"Somethin's happened, sure," says Jacobs. "He's never missed his time afore. Those fellers pride themselves on keepin' their word-you read Cooper, if you don't believe it-and he's sick or dead; one or the other."