The fair and bazaar of the United House-smiths' Benevolent Association
was assuredly a tremendous success, and not the least of its
attractions was the open market where kisses might be purchased at the
ridiculously small price of fifty cents each. But "Cash before
delivery" was the motto, and on the counter in front of each young
woman stood a brass bowl in which the purchaser deposited his
money--"Free list entirely suspended." One could see that "The Fair One
with Golden Locks," a large, full-fed blonde with extraordinarily vivid
red cheeks, had been doing a rushing business; her bowl was overflowing
with notes and coin. And the others also had done well, all except
"Mademoiselle D.," the girl at the far end; she had not made a single
sale. A slight little thing, pale and somewhat anxious-looking; no
wonder that customers had passed her by. Then she looked up, and we
both caught our breath. What eyes! Eyes of the purest, serenest
gray--gray of that rare quality that holds no tint of either green or
blue. Her eyes were her one beauty indeed, but the superlative miracle
of loveliness is best seen when it stands alone. And these dolts of
house-smiths had passed on to sample the pink-and-white confectionery
at the other end of the counter.
"One hundred, if you please," and Indiman laid a fifty-dollar bill in
the bowl of the girl with the gray eyes. The crowd stopped and gaped,
and "Mademoiselle D." turned from white to red and then to white again.
"Bought up the whole stock, boss?" asked a foolish-looking youth whose
collar was slowly but surely choking him to death.
"Better take a couple on account," said the pert damsel attached to the
young fellow's arm; "they might turn sour on you, Mister Man."
"Give 'em away with a pound of tea," put in a third joker. "Eh, Josie?"
"Let's get away from here," whispered Indiman to me. "The girl looks as
though she might faint."
We pushed on through the crowd that continued to chaff us
good-naturedly--"joshing" they called it. Then we managed to struggle
into a sort of backwater at the side of the dais upon which an alleged
string band was trying to make good, as the scornful Miss Josie
remarked.
"There's something wrong in this, Thorp," said Indiman to me, in an
undertone. "Did you notice the stout man who stood immediately behind
her?"
"The chap with one ear a full size larger than the other? Yes, I did."
"He never takes his eyes from her, and I believe that the girl is here
against her will."
"Indiman!--" I began, but he cut me short.
"I know it, I tell you, and I'm going to take her away. Do you see that
electric-light switch on the wall behind you?"
Back of the musicians' platform was a small wall cupboard holding the
usual apparatus for controlling the incandescent lights with which the
hall was illuminated. "Pull down both handles when I give the signal,"
he went on, imperturbably.
"What signal?"
Indiman considered. "I'll take one of my kisses," he said, smiling.
"I'll do nothing of the kind."
"Oh yes, you will. Remember now--the instant that I bend down to kiss
her."
He was gone, leaving me to curse his folly. I tried to overtake him,
but the foolish youth and his Josie blocked my way, intentionally, it
seemed; that was part of their joshing of the stranger within the
house-smiths' gates. I stepped up on the platform, and looked for
Indiman. He had just reached the counter covered with red-paper muslin;
he pushed his way up to the girl with the gray eyes and said something
to her. She seemed to shrink away. Indiman turned for an instant and
looked back at me, then he bent down and kissed her.
Without having had the slightest intention of so doing, I pulled down
both handles; the hall was in instant and utter darkness. For a moment
the following silence persisted, menacing and deadly; it was as though
panic had suddenly reared her frightful head, a wild beast ready to
spring.
A girl's light laugh turned the scale. "Trying to raid the fruit-stand,
are you, bub?" went on Miss Josie, in her thin, cool voice. "Thought
you could pinch a couple in the dark of the moon; but nay, nay,
Thomas--those two smacks 'll just cost you supper for four. I'm not
sitting behind the bargain-counter to-day, thank you."
A babel of cat-calls, oaths, and laughter broke out, but the tension
had been released and the danger was over. I pushed and jammed through
the crowd to the stairs. No one was attempting to leave; in the hall
they had just got the lights turned on again. I started down.
"Here, you!"
I looked back; the stout man with the disproportionate ears stood at
the head of the stairs, hemmed in by the crowd. He panted and shook his
clinched fist at me. "You!--you!" he shouted, impotently. I ran on.
In the street below Indiman was helping the girl into the coach. He
turned as I ran up.
"Good!" he said, and offered me his cigarette-case.
"The big fellow is coming down," I urged.
"Have a light," said Indiman. "And now, my son, allons!"
I stepped into the coach, and Indiman after me. There was a sound of
angry voices from the hall above; two or three men dashed down the
stairway, others following.
"Drive on!" shouted Indiman, and the carriage started. Then we both
turned and looked blankly at that empty back seat.
Indiman bit his lip. "It is an old trick--leaving by the other door,"
he said, quietly. "It was while we were lighting our cigarettes; and
that reminds me that I have decided to give up the habit." He tossed
his cigarette out of the window; the coach rolled away.
Private business called me to Washington the next day, and I had to
take the night train back, arriving in New York at the uncomfortably
early hour of seven. But it was some small satisfaction to rap
vigorously upon Indiman's door as I passed to my own room. One always
experiences a sense of virtue in being up at unseasonable hours, and
blessings should be shared with one's friends. Later on we met at
breakfast, and he did not thank me.
The following paragraph in the "Personal" column of the HERALD caught
my eye. "Listen to this," I said, and read it aloud to my sulky host:
"'To Mademoiselle D.,--There are ninety-and-nine kisses still due me,
and I propose to collect. Box 90, Herald office (up-town), or telephone
18,901 Madison Square. (Private wire.) "'HOUSE-SMITH.'"
Esper Indiman smiled and touched an electric button. "The letters,
Bolder," he said, but the man had anticipated his request, and was
carrying in a salver heaped high with missives and papers.
"I had the personal put in the HERALD the same night of our adventure
at the House-smiths' bazaar," said Indiman. "Also repeated in to-day's
issue."
"It seems to be bearing a fine crop of replies."
"There's a bushel-basket of 'em already--mostly from the alleged
humorist. Or else it's this sort of thing," and he tossed over an
extraordinary piece of stationery--white cream-laid, with edging like a
mourning band, only pink instead of black; think of that!
Of course, the contents of the letter did not belie its exterior. "Mr.
House-smith" was informed that not only ninety-nine, but nine hundred
and ninety-nine, kisses were at his disposal whenever he cared to
communicate with Miss Delicia Millefleurs. The writing was somewhat
shaky, and "communicate" was spelled with one m. Moreover, the general
appearance of the epistle was marred by the presence of a large blot.
But Miss Millefleurs was plainly a young person of instant ingenuity,
and she had turned the disfigurement to good purpose by drawing a
circle around it and labelling it, "One on account."
"Then there's this," said Indiman, and handed me a sheet of foolscap
which had been folded and sealed without an envelope, after the fashion
of our great-grandfathers. On it was pasted a strip of the tape used in
electric-recording instruments, and the characters were those of the
Morse alphabet, rather an unusual sight nowadays, when receiving
messages by sound is the universal practice. Underneath the row of dots
and dashes had been written their English equivalents in Indiman's
small, close handwriting. The transcribed message read:
"One thousand (s) dollars apiece (s) offered for any or all of
ninety-nine (s) kisses, undelivered. Take car No. 6 (s), 'Blue Line'
crosstown, any (s) evening, and get off at West Fourth Street. Purchase
two pounds of the best (s) butter at the corner grocery, and ask for a
purple trading (s) stamp."
"Quite as extravagant as the advertisement that called it forth," I
remarked. "To the wholly impartial mind it seems like nonsense."
"'Ah, but what precious nonsense!'" quoted Indiman, musingly. Then,
suddenly: "Thorp, we need butter; I wish you'd step around to that West
Fourth Street grocery and get a couple of pounds--the best butter,
mind."