Long ago I made an important discovery. It comes under the general head
of statics and is this: by occupying an invariable bench in Our Square,
looking venerable and contemplative and indigenous, as if you had grown
up in that selfsame spot, you will draw people to come to you for
information, and they will frequently give more than they get of it.
Such, I am informed, is the method whereby the flytrap orchid achieves a
satisfying meal. Not that I seek to claim for myself the colorful
splendors of the Cypripedium, being only a tired old pedagogue with a
taste for the sunlight and for observing the human bubbles that float
and bob on the current in our remote eddy of life. Nevertheless, I can
follow a worthy example, even though the exemplar be only a carnivorous
bloom. And, I may confess, on the afternoon of October 1st, I was in a
receptive mood for such flies of information as might come to me
concerning two large invading vans which had rumbled into our quiet
precincts and, after a pause for inquiry, stopped before the Mordaunt
Estate's newly repaired property at Number 37.
The Mordaunt Estate in person was painting the front wall. The design
which he practiced was based less upon any previsioned concept of art
than upon the purchase, at a price, of a rainbow-end job lot of colors.
The vanners descended, bent on negotiations. Progress was obviously
unsatisfactory, the artist, after brief and chill consideration,
reverting to his toil. Now, tact and discretion are essential in
approaching the Mordaunt Estate, for he is a prickly institution. I was
sure that the newcomers had taken the wrong tack with him.
Discomfiture was in their mien as they withdrew in my direction. I mused
upon my bench, with a metaphysical expression which I have found useful
in such cases. They conferred. They approached. They begged my pardon.
With an effort which can hardly have failed to be effective, I dragged
myself back to the world of actualities and opened languid eyes upon
them. It is possible that I opened them somewhat wider than the normal,
for they fell at once upon the nearer and smaller of the pair, a
butterfly of the most vivid and delightful appearance.
"Is the house with the 'To Let' sign on it really to let, do you know,
sir?" she inquired, adding music to color with her voice.
"So I understand," said I, rising.
"And the party with the yellow nose, who is desecrating the front," put
in the butterfly's companion. "Is he a lunatic or a designer of
barber poles?"
"He is a proud and reserved ex-butcher, named Wagboom, now doing a
limited but high-class business in rentals as the Mordaunt Estate."
"He may be the butcher, but he talks more like the pig. All we could get
out of him was a series of grunts when we addressed him by name."
"Ah, but you used the wrong name. For all business purposes he should be
addressed as the Mordaunt Estate, his duly incorporated title. Wagboom
is an irritant to a haughty property-owner's soul."
"Shall we go back and try a counter-irritant?" asked the young man of
his companion.
"With a view to renting?" I inquired.
"Yes."
"Do you keep dogs?"
"No," said the young man.
"Or clocks by the hundred?"
"Certainly not," answered the butterfly.
"Or bombs?"
Upon their combined and emphatic negative they looked at each other with
a wild surmise which said plainly: "Are they _all_ crazy down here?"
"If you do," I explained kindly, "you might have trouble in dealing. The
latest tenant of Number 37 was a fluffy poodle who pushed one of two
hundred clocks into the front area so that it exploded and blew away the
front wall." And I outlined the history of that canine clairvoyant,
Willy Woolly. "The Mordaunt Estate is sensitive about his tenants,
anyway. He rents, not on profits, but on prejudice. Perhaps it would be
well for you to flatter him a little; admire his style of house
painting."
Accepting this counsel with suitable expressions, they returned to the
charge, addressed the proprietor of Number 37 by his official title and
delivered the most gratifying opinions regarding his artistry.
"That," said the Mordaunt Estate, wiping his painty hands on his knees
with brilliant results, as he turned a fat and smiling face to them, "is
after the R. Noovo style. I dunno who R. Noovo was, but he's a bear for
color. Are you artists?"
"We're house-hunters," explained the young man.
"As for tenants," said the Mordaunt Estate, "I take 'em or leave 'em as
I like 'em or don't. I like you folks. You got an eye for a tasty bit of
colorin'. Eight rooms, bath, and kitchen. By the week in case we don't
suit each other. Very choice and classy for a young married couple.
Eight dollars, in advance. Prices for R. Noovo dwellings has riz."
"We're not married," said the young man.
"Hey? Whaddye mean, not married?" demanded that highly respectable
institution, the Mordaunt Estate, severely. His expression mollified as
he turned to the butterfly. "Aimin' to be, I s'pose."
"We only met this morning; so we haven't decided yet," answered the
young man. "At least," he added blandly, as his companion seemed to be
struggling for utterance, "she hasn't informed me of her decision, if
she has made it."
Bewilderment spread like a gray mist across the painty features of the
Mordaunt Estate. "Nothin' doin'," he began, "until--"
"Don't decide hastily," adjured the young man. "Take this coin." He
forced a half-dollar into the reluctant hand of the decorator.
"Nothin' doin' on account, either. Pay as you enter."
"Only one of us is going to enter. The coin decides. Spin it. Your
call," he said to the butterfly.
"Heads," cried the butterfly.
"Tails," proclaimed the arbiter, as the silver shivered into silence on
the flagging.
"Then the house is yours," said the butterfly. "Good luck go with it."
She smiled, gamely covering her disappointment.
"I don't want it," returned the young man.
"Play fair," she exhorted him. "We both agreed solemnly to stand by the
toss. Didn't we?"
"What did we agree?"
"That the winner should have the choice."
"Very well. I won, didn't I?"
"You certainly did."
"And I choose not to take the house," he declared triumphantly. "It's a
very nice house, but"--he shaded his eyes as he directed them upon the
proud-pied façade, blinking significantly--"I'd have to wear smoked
glasses if I lived in it, and they don't suit my style of beauty."
"You'd not get it now, young feller, if you was to go down on your knees
with a thousand dollars in each hand," asserted the offended Estate.
"See!" said the young man to the butterfly. "Fate decides for you."
"But what will you do?" she asked solicitously.
"Perhaps I can find some other place in the Square."
She held out her hand. "You've been very nice and helpful, but--I think
not. Good-bye."