THE TWO PETERS
The hands of Peter Rolls!
They had Winifred Child's imagination in their grip. Sleeping and
waking, she saw the glitter of their rings. For on her first night in
New York Mr. Löwenfeld told her a story about the hands.
They were the hands of Peter senior. His commercial genius had spread
them across the sky to beckon the public to his great new department
store on Sixth Avenue. Just as at the beginning of the gesture you saw
only the tips of the fingers, so Peter Rolls, Sr., had begun with a
tiny flicker, the first groping of his inspiration feeling its way to
success.
Everybody in the United States had heard of Peter Rolls, or it was not
the fault of the magazines and Sunday papers. Peter Rolls had been for
years one of the greatest advertisers in America. Mr. Winfield didn't
see how, even on a remote little island like England, Miss Child could
have escaped hearing about Peter Rolls's hands. This had now become
the snappy way of saying that you intended to shop at Peter Rolls's
store: "I'm going to the Hands." "I'll get that at the Hands." And
Peter Rolls had emphasized the phrase on the public tongue by his
method of advertising.
Each advertisement that appeared took the same form--a square space
heavily outlined in black or colour, held up by a pair of ringed
hands, facsimiles in miniature of his famous sky sign. And the several
thousand salespeople in the huge store were slangily nicknamed "Peter
Rolls's hands." But naturally these insignificant morsels of the great
mosaic were not spelled with a capital H, unless, perhaps by
themselves, and once when a vaudeville favourite sang a song, "I'm a
Hand, I'm a Hand." It was a smart song, and made a hit; but Peter
Rolls was said to have paid both the star and the management.
Apparently nothing concerning Peter Rolls, Sr., and his family was
hidden from Mr. Löwenfeld and Miss Seeker, although they claimed no
personal acquaintance with the great. Probably, if Win had asked, they
could have told how many servants Mrs. Rolls kept and how many cases
of champagne her husband ordered in a year. But questions were
unnecessary. The subject of a self-made millionaire was a fascinating
one to the lately naturalized German.
Peter Rolls, Sr., had emigrated from the north of Ireland as a young
boy. He had contrived to buy a few cheap odds and ends likely to
attract women buried in the country far from shops. He had somehow
known exactly what odds and ends to select. That was genius; and he
had coined money as a peddler. In his wandering life he made
acquaintance with many tramps and saw how he might make even the
lowest useful. After a few years he scraped up enough capital to start
a small store in New York, far downtown, where rents were cheap.
Like his peddler's pack, the store was stocked with odds and ends.
But again they were just the right odds and ends, the odds and ends
that every one in that neighbourhood wanted and had never been able to
obtain under one roof. No article cost less than five cents, none more
than a dollar, and it was marvellous what Peter Rolls could afford to
sell for a dollar.
"I Can Furnish Your Flat for Ten Dollars. Why? Because I Work with My
Own Hands," was Peter Rolls's first advertisement. And the Hands had
never lost their cunning since.
He could undersell any other shopkeeper in New York because he got his
salesmen for next to nothing. They were a judicious selection from
among his friends, the tramps. Any man who could recall enough of his
schooling to do a little sum in addition was eligible. He was fed,
clothed, tobaccoed, judiciously beered, watched all day while at work,
and shut up at night in a fireproof, drink-proof cubicle. The plan
proved a brilliant success. The little store downtown became a big
one, and grew bigger and bigger, swallowing all the other stores in
its block; and it was now ten years since the great Sixth Avenue
department store, which could call itself the largest in New York, was
opened under the benediction of the Hands.
Winifred had fancied, because of the balm which was making a fortune,
that Peter Rolls, Sr., was some sort of a glorified chemist. But Mr.
Löwenfeld roared at this idea. The Balm of Gilead was only one of the
lucky hits in the drug department, in itself as big as a good-sized
provincial store. The Hands sold everything, and though the tramps
were long ago dead or abolished, Peter Rolls still undersold every
other store in New York. How did he do it? Well--there were ways.
The hands without a capital H might tell, perhaps; but they did not
talk much. Peter Rolls never had any difficulty in obtaining or
keeping as many of them as he wanted, and could get double the number
if he liked.
"Does he still 'work with his own hands?'" quoted Win at last, feeling
half guilty, as if she ought not to ask questions about Peter's father
behind Peter's back. But the affairs of the Rolls family seemed to be
public property. Mr. Löwenfeld and Miss Seeker both laughed.
"I should love," said the latter, "to see Ena Rolls's face if her
father _did_ work! She spells their name with an 'e'--R-o-l-l-e-s--and
hopes the smart set on Long Island, where their new palace is, won't
realize they're the Hands. Isn't it ridiculous? Like an ostrich hiding
its head in the sand. She runs her father and mother socially. I guess
the old man hardly dares put his nose inside the store, except about
once a year; and Ena and the old lady never buy a pin there. As for
the young fellow, they say he doesn't bother: hates business and wants
to be a philanthropist or something outlandish on his own. I should
say to him, if he asked _me_: 'Charity begins at home.'"
Those last two sentences spoken by Miss Emma Seeker on Winifred
Child's first night in New York had as direct an effect upon the
girl's life as if the ringed hands had come down out of the sky and
clutched her dress. She did not attach much importance to the words at
the time, except to think it snobbish of Miss Rolls and weak of her
mother never to show themselves under the roof where their fortune was
being piled up. Also, she thought it disappointing of Peter junior not
to "bother" about the business which had been his father's life work.
But then Peter was altogether disappointing, as Miss Rolls (with an
"e") had disinterestedly warned her.
It was not until Win had been in New York for a month that the
influence of Miss Seeker's words made itself felt, and the Hands gave
their twitch at the hem of her dress. They had been on her mind often
enough during the four weeks--morning, noon, and night--but she had
never known that she was physically within touching distance.
The "happy omen" of getting her passage to New York free had stopped
working on the _Monarchic_. Since then bad luck had walked after her
and jumped onto her lap and purred on her pillow, exactly like a cat
that persistently clings to a person who dislikes it. All the
positions which she was competent to fill were filled already. Only
those she could not undertake seemed to be open. She tried to sing,
she tried to teach, she tried to report news, she tried to be a
publisher's reader, and to get work in a public library. She tried to
make hats, she tried to act, but nobody wanted her to do any of these
things, unless, perhaps, she went away and trained hard for a year.
When matters began to look desperate, and not till then, she applied
to Nadine.
But Lady Darling had gone back to England, and Miss Sorel, not having
recovered her health after the great tossing at sea, had been replaced
by a brand-new American manageress. No more models were wanted. There
was nothing that Miss Child could do, and the only result of her visit
was delight in the heart of Miss Devereux because "that queer Child
girl was laughing on the wrong side of her mouth." The new manageress
was so preoccupied in manner and so sure that Miss Child's services
would not be needed that Win did not even leave her address. Besides,
as it happened, she had given Miss Hampshire "notice," and had not yet
found another boarding-house.
"I think I ought to try to get into a cheaper place," she explained.
And that was a reason; but another, just as important, was pretty Miss
Seeker's jealousy because Mr. Löwenfeld talked too much to the English
girl at the table.
After all, the best that Win could accomplish after three days' dismal
search was a saving of two dollars a week. For eight dollars she
secured a fourth-story back hall bedroom half as big and half as clean
as Miss Hampshire's, and she laughed aloud to find herself feeling
desperately homesick for the "frying pan." For Win could still laugh.
It was counting her money, the day after a servant at the new
boarding-house stole twenty dollars, that whisked Miss Child's skirt
within reach of the Hands. Things could not go on like this. She must
get something to do at once--no matter what. Another girl in that
house bought newspapers for the sake of the employment notices.
Winifred borrowed the papers and answered many of the most attractive
offers in vain. Next she tried the less attractive ones. When they
were used up--and she also--she came down to what she called bed rock.
In bed rock were advertisements of several large stores for extra help
through the holiday season. Of these Peter Rolls's store was at the
head. "The Hands want hands," was part of the appeal, and Win
instantly turned to something else. It was not until she had applied
for work at six other shops, and found herself too late at all, that
it began to seem faintly possible for her to think of going to Peter
Rolls's father's store.
When the idea did knock at the door of her mind hesitatingly as Peter
junior used to knock at the dryad door, the Hands' advertisement for
help was the last of its kind in the papers. The Hands needed more
hands than any of the other stores.
When Win was just about to say to herself, "That's the one thing I
couldn't do," she remembered Miss Seeker's words. Miss Rolls ruled her
father and mother socially. Peter senior was allowed to show his nose
in the place only about once a year. Mrs. and Miss Rolls never bought
a pin there. Young Peter didn't bother, but wanted to be a
philanthropist. In fact, you would, apparently, be far more likely to
meet a member of the Rolls family in any other shop than their own.
Instead of saying that she could not, Win said: "Why shouldn't I?" She
told herself that in a vast house of business which employed over two
thousand salespeople she would be a needle in a haystack--a needle
with a number, not a name. "I'll go and ask for a place," she answered
her own question.
But almost she hoped that she would not succeed. If she tried, failure
would not be her fault.