It is well that hay fever and colds do not obtain in the healthful
vicinity of Cactus City, Texas, for the dry goods emporium of Navarro &
Platt, situated there, is not to be sneezed at.
Twenty thousand people in Cactus City scatter their silver coin with
liberal hands for the things that their hearts desire. The bulk of this
semiprecious metal goes to Navarro & Platt. Their huge brick building
covers enough ground to graze a dozen head of sheep. You can buy of
them a rattlesnake-skin necktie, an automobile or an eighty-five
dollar, latest style, ladies’ tan coat in twenty different shades.
Navarro & Platt first introduced pennies west of the Colorado River.
They had been ranchmen with business heads, who saw that the world did
not necessarily have to cease its revolutions after free grass went
out.
Every Spring, Navarro, senior partner, fifty-five, half Spanish,
cosmopolitan, able, polished, had “gone on” to New York to buy goods.
This year he shied at taking up the long trail. He was undoubtedly
growing older; and he looked at his watch several times a day before
the hour came for his siesta.
“John,” he said, to his junior partner, “you shall go on this year to
buy the goods.”
Platt looked tired.
“I’m told,” said he, “that New York is a plumb dead town; but I’ll go.
I can take a whirl in San Antone for a few days on my way and have some
fun.”
Two weeks later a man in a Texas full dress suit—black frock coat,
broad-brimmed soft white hat, and lay-down collar 3-4 inch high, with
black, wrought iron necktie—entered the wholesale cloak and suit
establishment of Zizzbaum & Son, on lower Broadway.
Old Zizzbaum had the eye of an osprey, the memory of an elephant and a
mind that unfolded from him in three movements like the puzzle of the
carpenter’s rule. He rolled to the front like a brunette polar bear,
and shook Platt’s hand.
“And how is the good Mr. Navarro in Texas?” he said. “The trip was too
long for him this year, so? We welcome Mr. Platt instead.”
“A bull’s eye,” said Platt, “and I’d give forty acres of unirrigated
Pecos County land to know how you did it.”
“I knew,” grinned Zizzbaum, “just as I know that the rainfall in El
Paso for the year was 28.5 inches, or an increase of 15 inches, and
that therefore Navarro & Platt will buy a $15,000 stock of suits this
spring instead of $10,000, as in a dry year. But that will be
to-morrow. There is first a cigar in my private office that will remove
from your mouth the taste of the ones you smuggle across the Rio Grande
and like—because they are smuggled.”
It was late in the afternoon and business for the day had ended,
Zizzbaum left Platt with a half-smoked cigar, and came out of the
private office to Son, who was arranging his diamond scarfpin before a
mirror, ready to leave.
“Abey,” he said, “you will have to take Mr. Platt around to-night and
show him things. They are customers for ten years. Mr. Navarro and I we
played chess every moment of spare time when he came. That is good, but
Mr. Platt is a young man and this is his first visit to New York. He
should amuse easily.”
“All right,” said Abey, screwing the guard tightly on his pin. “I’ll
take him on. After he’s seen the Flatiron and the head waiter at the
Hotel Astor and heard the phonograph play ‘Under the Old Apple Tree’
it’ll be half past ten, and Mr. Texas will be ready to roll up in his
blanket. I’ve got a supper engagement at 11:30, but he’ll be all to the
Mrs. Winslow before then.”
The next morning at 10 Platt walked into the store ready to do
business. He had a bunch of hyacinths pinned on his lapel. Zizzbaum
himself waited on him. Navarro & Platt were good customers, and never
failed to take their discount for cash.
“And what did you think of our little town?” asked Zizzbaum, with the
fatuous smile of the Manhattanite.
“I shouldn’t care to live in it,” said the Texan. “Your son and I
knocked around quite a little last night. You’ve got good water, but
Cactus City is better lit up.”
“We’ve got a few lights on Broadway, don’t you think, Mr. Platt?”
“And a good many shadows,” said Platt. “I think I like your horses
best. I haven’t seen a crow-bait since I’ve been in town.”
Zizzbaum led him up stairs to show the samples of suits.
“Ask Miss Asher to come,” he said to a clerk.
Miss Asher came, and Platt, of Navarro & Platt, felt for the first time
the wonderful bright light of romance and glory descend upon him. He
stood still as a granite cliff above the cañon of the Colorado, with
his wide-open eyes fixed upon her. She noticed his look and flushed a
little, which was contrary to her custom.
Miss Asher was the crack model of Zizzbaum & Son. She was of the blond
type known as “medium,” and her measurements even went the required
38-25-42 standard a little better. She had been at Zizzbaum’s two
years, and knew her business. Her eye was bright, but cool; and had she
chosen to match her gaze against the optic of the famed basilisk, that
fabulous monster’s gaze would have wavered and softened first.
Incidentally, she knew buyers.
“Now, Mr. Platt,” said Zizzbaum, “I want you to see these princess
gowns in the light shades. They will be the thing in your climate. This
first, if you please, Miss Asher.”
Swiftly in and out of the dressing-room the prize model flew, each time
wearing a new costume and looking more stunning with every change. She
posed with absolute self-possession before the stricken buyer, who
stood, tongue-tied and motionless, while Zizzbaum orated oilily of the
styles. On the model’s face was her faint, impersonal professional
smile that seemed to cover something like weariness or contempt.
When the display was over Platt seemed to hesitate. Zizzbaum was a
little anxious, thinking that his customer might be inclined to try
elsewhere. But Platt was only looking over in his mind the best
building sites in Cactus City, trying to select one on which to build a
house for his wife-to-be—who was just then in the dressing-room taking
off an evening gown of lavender and tulle.
“Take your time, Mr. Platt,” said Zizzbaum. “Think it over to-night.
You won’t find anybody else meet our prices on goods like these. I’m
afraid you’re having a dull time in New York, Mr. Platt. A young man
like you—of course, you miss the society of the ladies. Wouldn’t you
like a nice young lady to take out to dinner this evening? Miss Asher,
now, is a very nice young lady; she will make it agreeable for you.”
“Why, she doesn’t know me,” said Platt, wonderingly. “She doesn’t know
anything about me. Would she go? I’m not acquainted with her.”
“Would she go?” repeated Zizzbaum, with uplifted eyebrows. “Sure, she
would go. I will introduce you. Sure, she would go.”
He called Miss Asher loudly.
She came, calm and slightly contemptuous, in her white shirt waist and
plain black skirt.
“Mr. Platt would like the pleasure of your company to dinner this
evening,” said Zizzbaum, walking away.
“Sure,” said Miss Asher, looking at the ceiling. “I’d be much pleased.
Nine-eleven West Twentieth street. What time?”
“Say seven o’clock.”
“All right, but please don’t come ahead of time. I room with a school
teacher, and she doesn’t allow any gentlemen to call in the room. There
isn’t any parlor, so you’ll have to wait in the hall. I’ll be ready.”
At half past seven Platt and Miss Asher sat at a table in a Broadway
restaurant. She was dressed in a plain, filmy black. Platt didn’t know
that it was all a part of her day’s work.
With the unobtrusive aid of a good waiter he managed to order a
respectable dinner, minus the usual Broadway preliminaries.
Miss Asher flashed upon him a dazzling smile.
“Mayn’t I have something to drink?” she asked.
“Why, certainly,” said Platt. “Anything you want.”
“A dry Martini,” she said to the waiter.
When it was brought and set before her Platt reached over and took it
away.
“What is this?” he asked.
“A cocktail, of course.”
“I thought it was some kind of tea you ordered. This is liquor. You
can’t drink this. What is your first name?”
“To my intimate friends,” said Miss Asher, freezingly, “it is ‘Helen.’”
“Listen, Helen,” said Platt, leaning over the table. “For many years
every time the spring flowers blossomed out on the prairies I got to
thinking of somebody that I’d never seen or heard of. I knew it was you
the minute I saw you yesterday. I’m going back home to-morrow, and
you’re going with me. I know it, for I saw it in your eyes when you
first looked at me. You needn’t kick, for you’ve got to fall into line.
Here’s a little trick I picked out for you on my way over.”
He flicked a two-carat diamond solitaire ring across the table. Miss
Asher flipped it back to him with her fork.
“Don’t get fresh,” she said, severely.
“I’m worth a hundred thousand dollars,” said Platt. “I’ll build you the
finest house in West Texas.”
“You can’t buy me, Mr. Buyer,” said Miss Asher, “if you had a hundred
million. I didn’t think I’d have to call you down. You didn’t look like
the others to me at first, but I see you’re all alike.”
“All who?” asked Platt.
“All you buyers. You think because we girls have to go out to dinner
with you or lose our jobs that you’re privileged to say what you
please. Well, forget it. I thought you were different from the others,
but I see I was mistaken.”
Platt struck his fingers on the table with a gesture of sudden,
illuminating satisfaction.
“I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, almost hilariously—“the Nicholson place,
over on the north side. There’s a big grove of live oaks and a natural
lake. The old house can be pulled down and the new one set further
back.”
“Put out your pipe,” said Miss Asher. “I’m sorry to wake you up, but
you fellows might as well get wise, once for all, to where you stand.
I’m supposed to go to dinner with you and help jolly you along so
you’ll trade with old Zizzy, but don’t expect to find me in any of the
suits you buy.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” said Platt, “that you go out this way with
customers, and they all—they all talk to you like I have?”
“They all make plays,” said Miss Asher. “But I must say that you’ve got
’em beat in one respect. They generally talk diamonds, while you’ve
actually dug one up.”
“How long have you been working, Helen?”
“Got my name pat, haven’t you? I’ve been supporting myself for eight
years. I was a cash girl and a wrapper and then a shop girl until I was
grown, and then I got to be a suit model. Mr. Texas Man, don’t you
think a little wine would make this dinner a little less dry?”
“You’re not going to drink wine any more, dear. It’s awful to think
how— I’ll come to the store to-morrow and get you. I want you to pick
out an automobile before we leave. That’s all we need to buy here.”
“Oh, cut that out. If you knew how sick I am of hearing such talk.”
After the dinner they walked down Broadway and came upon Diana’s little
wooded park. The trees caught Platt’s eye at once, and he must turn
along under the winding walk beneath them. The lights shone upon two
bright tears in the model’s eyes.
“I don’t like that,” said Platt. “What’s the matter?”
“Don’t you mind,” said Miss Asher. “Well, it’s because—well, I didn’t
think you were that kind when I first saw you. But you are all like.
And now will you take me home, or will I have to call a cop?”
Platt took her to the door of her boarding-house. They stood for a
minute in the vestibule. She looked at him with such scorn in her eyes
that even his heart of oak began to waver. His arm was half way around
her waist, when she struck him a stinging blow on the face with her
open hand.
As he stepped back a ring fell from somewhere and bounded on the tiled
floor. Platt groped for it and found it.
“Now, take your useless diamond and go, Mr. Buyer,” she said.
“This was the other one—the wedding ring,” said the Texan, holding the
smooth gold band on the palm of his hand.
Miss Asher’s eyes blazed upon him in the half darkness.
“Was that what you meant?—did you”—
Somebody opened the door from inside the house.
“Good-night,” said Platt. “I’ll see you at the store to-morrow.”
Miss Asher ran up to her room and shook the school teacher until she
sat up in bed ready to scream “Fire!”
“Where is it?” she cried.
“That’s what I want to know,” said the model. “You’ve studied
geography, Emma, and you ought to know. Where is a town called
Cac—Cac—Carac—Caracas City, I think, they called it?”
“How dare you wake me up for that?” said the school teacher. “Caracas
is in Venezuela, of course.”
“What’s it like?”
“Why, it’s principally earthquakes and negroes and monkeys and malarial
fever and volcanoes.”
“I don’t care,” said Miss Asher, blithely; “I’m going there to-morrow.”