The next two weeks were the busiest Maida ever knew.
In the first place she must see Mrs. Murdock and talk things over.
In the second place, she must examine all the stock that Mrs.
Murdock left. In the third place, she must order new stock from the
wholesale places. And in the fourth place, the rooms must be made
ready for her and Granny to live in. It was hard work, but it was
great fun.
First, Mrs. Murdock called, at Billy’s request, at his rooms on
Mount Vernon Street. Granny and Maida were there to meet her.
Mrs. Murdock was a tall, thin, erect old lady. Her bright black eyes
were piercing enough, but it seemed to Maida that the round-glassed
spectacles, through which she examined them all, were even more so.
“I’ve made out a list of things for the shop that I’m all out of,”
she began briskly. “You’ll know what the rest is from what’s left on
the shelves. Now about buying—there’s a wagon comes round once a
month and I’ve told them to keep right on a-coming even though I
ain’t there. They’ll sell you your candy, pickles, pickled limes and
all sich stuff. You’ll have to buy your toys in Boston—your paper,
pens, pencils, rubbers and the like also, but not at the same places
where you git the toys. I’ve put all the addresses down on the list.
I don’t see how you can make any mistakes.”
“How long will it take you to get out of the shop?” Billy asked.
Maida knew that Billy enjoyed Mrs. Murdock, for often, when he
looked at that lady, his eyes “skrinkled up,” although there was not
a smile on his face.
“A week is all I need,” Mrs. Murdock declared. “If it worn’t for
other folks who are keeping me waiting, I’d have that hull place
fixed as clean as a whistle in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Now I’ll
put a price on everything, so’s you won’t be bothered what to
charge. There’s some things I don’t ever git, because folks buy too
many of them and it’s sich an everlasting bother keeping them in
stock. But you’re young and spry, and maybe you won’t mind jumping
about for every Tom, Dick and Harry. But, remember,” she added in
parting, “don’t git expensive things. Folks in that neighborhood
ain’t got no money to fool away. Git as many things as you can for a
cent a-piece. Git some for five and less for ten and nothing for
over a quarter. But you must allus callulate to buy some things to
lose money on. I mean the truck you put in the window jess to make
folks look in. It gits dusty and fly-specked before you know it and
there’s an end on it. I allus send them to the Home for Little
Wanderers at Christmas time.”
Early one morning, a week later, a party of three—Granny Flynn,
Billy and Maida—walked up Beacon Street and across the common to the
subway. Maida had never walked so far in her life. But her father
had told her that if she wanted to keep the shop, she must give up
her carriage and her automobile. That was not hard. She was willing
to give up anything that she owned for the little shop.
They left the car at City Square in Charlestown and walked the rest
of the way. It was Saturday, a brilliant morning in a beautiful
autumn. All the children in the neighborhood were out playing. Maida
looked at each one of them as she passed. They seemed as wonderful
as fairy beings to her—for would they not all be her customers soon?
And yet, such was her excitement, she could not remember one face
after she had passed it. A single picture remained in her mind—a
picture of a little girl standing alone in the middle of the court.
Black-haired, black-eyed, a vivid spot of color in a scarlet cape
and a scarlet hat, the child was scattering bread-crumbs to a flock
of pigeons. The pigeons did not seem afraid of her. They flew close
to her feet. One even alighted on her shoulder.
“It makes me think of St. Mark’s in Venice,” Maida said to Billy.
But, little girl—scarlet cape—flocks of doves—St. Mark’s, all went
out of her head entirely when she unlocked the door of the little
shop.
“Oh, oh, oh!” she cried, “how nice and clean it looks!”
The shop seemed even larger than she remembered it. The confused,
dusty, cluttery look had gone. But with its dull paint and its
blackened ceiling, it still seemed dark and dingy.
Maida ran behind the counter, peeped into the show cases, poked her
head into the window, drew out the drawers that lined the wall,
pulled covers from the boxes on the shelves. There is no knowing
where her investigations would have ended if Billy had not said:
“See here, Miss Curiosity, we can’t put in the whole morning on the
shop. This is a preliminary tour of investigation. Come and see the
rest of it. This way to the living-room!”
The living-room led from the shop—a big square room, empty now, of
course. Maida limped over to the window. “Oh, oh, oh!” she cried;
“did you ever see such a darling little yard?”
“It surely is little,” Billy agreed, “not much bigger than a pocket
handkerchief, is it?”
And yet, scrap of a place as the yard was, it had an air of
completeness, a pretty quaintness. Two tiny brick walks curved from
the door to the gate. On either side of these spread out microscopic
flower-beds, crowded tight with plants. Late-blooming dahlias and
asters made spots of starry color in the green. A vine, running over
the door to the second story, waved like a crimson banner dropped
from the window.
“The old lady must have been fond of flowers,” Billy Potter said. He
squinted his near-sighted blue eyes and studied the bunches of
green. “Syringa bush in one corner. Lilac bush in the other.
Nasturtiums at the edges. Morning-glories running up the fence.
Sunflowers in between. My, won’t it be fun to see them all racing up
in the spring!”
Maida jumped up and down at the thought. She could not jump like
other children. Indeed, this was the first time that she had ever
tried. It was as if her feet were like flat-irons. Granny Flynn
turned quickly away and Billy bit his lips.
“I know just how I’m going to fix this room up for you, Petronilla,”
Billy said, nodding his head mysteriously. “Now let’s go into the
kitchen.”
The kitchen led from the living-room. Billy exclaimed when he saw it
and Maida shook her hands, but it was Granny who actually screamed
with delight.
Much bigger than the living-room, it had four windows with sunshine
pouring in through every one of them. But it was not the four
windows nor yet the sunshine that made the sensation—it was the
stone floor.
“We’ll put a carpet on it if you think it’s too cold, Granny,” Billy
suggested immediately.
“Oh, lave it be, Misther Billy,” Granny begged. “’Tis loike me ould
home in Oireland. Sure ’tis homesick Oi am this very minut looking
at ut.”
“All right,” Billy agreed cheerfully. “What you say goes, Granny.
Now upstairs to the sleeping-rooms.”
To get to the second floor they climbed a little stairway not more
than three feet wide, with steps very high, most of them triangular
in shape because the stairway had to turn so often. And
upstairs—after they got there—consisted of three rooms, two big and
square and light, and one smaller and darker.
“The small room is to be made into a bathroom,” Billy explained,
“and these two big ones are to be your bedrooms. Which one will you
have, Maida?”
Maida examined both rooms carefully. “Well, I don’t care for myself
which I have,” she said. “But it does seem as if there were a
teeny-weeny more sun in this one. I think Granny ought to have it, for
she loves the sunshine on her old bones. You know, Billy, Granny and I
have the greatest fun about our bones. Hers are all wrong because
they’re so old, and mine are all wrong because they’re so young.”
“All right,” Billy agreed. “Sunshiny one for Granny, shady one for
you. That’s settled! I hope you realize, Miss Maida, Elizabeth,
Fairfax, Petronilla, Pinkwink, Posie Westabrook what perfectly bully
rooms these are! They’re as old as Noah.”
“I’m glad they’re old,” Maida said. “But of course they must be.
This house was here when Dr. Pierce was a little boy. And that must
have been a long, long, long time ago.”
“Just look at the floors,” Billy went on admiringly. “See how uneven
they are. You’ll have to walk straight here, Petronilla, to keep
from falling down. That old wooden wainscoting is simply charming.
That’s a nice old fireplace too. And these old doors are perfect.”
Granny Flynn was working the latch of one of the old doors with her
wrinkled hands. “Manny’s the toime Oi’ve snibbed a latch loike that
in Oireland,” she said, and she smiled so hard that her very
wrinkles seemed to twinkle.
“And look at the windows, Granny,” Billy said. “Sixteen panes of
glass each. I hope you’ll make Petronilla wash them.”
“Oh, Granny, will you let me wash the windows?” Maida asked
ecstatically.
“When you’re grand and sthrong,” Granny promised.
“I know just how I’ll furnish the room,” Billy said half to himself.
“Oh, Billy, tell me!” Maida begged.
“Can’t,” he protested mischievously. “You’ve got to wait till it’s
all finished before you see hide or hair of it.”
“I know I’ll die of curiosity,” Maida protested. “But then of course
I shall be very busy with my own business.”
“Ah, yes,” Billy replied. “Now that you’ve embarked on a mercantile
career, Miss Westabrook, I think you’ll find that you’ll have less
and less time for the decorative side of life.”
Billy spoke so seriously that most little girls would have been awed
by his manner. But Maida recognized the tone that he always employed
when he was joking her. Beside, his eyes were all “skrinkled up.”
She did not quite understand what the joke was, but she smiled back
at him.
“Now can we look at the things downstairs?” she pleaded.
“Yes,” Billy assented. “To-day is a very important day. Behind
locked doors and sealed windows, we’re going to take account of
stock.”
Granny Flynn remained in the bedrooms to make all kinds of
mysterious measurements, to open and shut doors, to examine closets,
to try window-sashes, even to poke her head up the chimney.
Downstairs, Billy and Maida opened boxes and boxes and boxes and
drawers and drawers and drawers. Every one of these had been
carefully gone over by the conscientious Mrs. Murdock. Two boxes
bulged with toys, too broken or soiled to be of any use. These they
threw into the ash-barrel at once. What was left they dumped on the
floor. Maida and Billy sat down beside the heap and examined the
things, one by one. Maida had never seen such toys in her life—so
cheap and yet so amusing.
It was hard work to keep to business with such enchanting temptation
to play all about them. Billy insisted on spinning every top—he got
five going at once—on blowing every balloon—he produced such
dreadful wails of agony that Granny came running downstairs in great
alarm—on jumping with every jump-rope—the short ones tripped him up
and once he sprawled headlong—on playing jackstones—Maida beat him
easily at this—on playing marbles—with a piece of crayon he drew a
ring on the floor—on looking through all the books—he declared that
he was going to buy some little penny-pamphlet fairy-tales as soon
as he could save the money. But in spite of all this fooling, they
really accomplished a great deal.
They found very few eatables—candy, fruit, or the like. Mrs. Murdock
had wisely sold out this perishable stock. One glass jar, however,
was crammed full of what Billy recognized to be “bulls-eyes”—round
lumps of candy as big as plums and as hard as stones. Billy said
that he loved bulls-eyes better than terrapin or broiled live
lobster, that he had not tasted one since he was “half-past ten.”
For the rest of the day, one of his cheeks stuck out as if he had
the toothache.
They came across all kinds of odds and ends—lead pencils,
blank-books, an old slate pencil wrapped in gold paper which Billy
insisted on using to draw pictures on a slate—he made this squeak so
that Maida clapped her hands over her ears. They found single pieces
from sets of miniature furniture, a great many dolls, rag-dolls,
china dolls, celluloid dolls, the latest bisque beauties, and two
old-fashioned waxen darlings whose features had all run together
from being left in too great a heat.
They went through all these things, sorting them into heaps which
they afterwards placed in boxes. At noon, Billy went out and bought
lunch. Still squatting on the floor, the three of them ate
sandwiches and drank milk. Granny said that Maida had never eaten so
much at one meal.
All this happened on Saturday. Maida did not see the little shop
again until it was finished.
By Monday the place was as busy as a beehive. Men were putting in a
furnace, putting in a telephone, putting in a bathroom, whitening
the plaster, painting the woodwork.
Finally came two days of waiting for the paint to dry. “Will it
ever, _ever_, EVER dry?” Maida used to ask Billy in the most
despairing of voices.
By Thursday, the rooms were ready for their second coat of paint.
“Oh, Billy, do tell me what color it is—I can’t wait to see it,”
Maida begged.
But, “Sky-blue-pink” was all she got from Billy.
Saturday the furniture came.
In the meantime, Maida had been going to all the principal wholesale
places in Boston picking out new stock. Granny Flynn accompanied her
or stayed at home, according to the way she felt, but Billy never
missed a trip.
Maida enjoyed this tremendously, although often she had to go to bed
before dark. She said it was the responsibility that tired her.
To Maida, these big wholesale places seemed like the storehouses of
Santa Claus. In reality they were great halls, lined with parallel
rows of counters. The counters were covered with boxes and the boxes
were filled with toys. Along the aisles between the counters moved
crowds of buyers, busily examining the display.
It was particularly hard for Maida to choose, because she was
limited by price. She kept recalling Mrs. Murdock’s advice, “Get as
many things as you can for a cent a-piece.” The expensive toys
tempted her, but although she often stopped and looked them
wistfully over, she always ended by going to the cheaper counters.
“You ought to be thinking how you’ll decorate the windows for your
first day’s sale,” Billy advised her. “You must make it look as
tempting as possible. I think, myself, it’s always a good plan to
display the toys that go with the season.”
Maida thought of this a great deal after she went to bed at night.
By the end of the week, she could see in imagination just how her
windows were going to look.
Saturday night, Billy told her that everything was ready, that she
should see the completed house Monday morning. It seemed to Maida
that the Sunday coming in between was the longest day that she had
ever known.
When she unlocked the door to the shop, the next morning, she let
out a little squeal of joy. “Oh, I would never know it,” she
declared. “How much bigger it looks, and lighter and prettier!”
Indeed, you would never have known the place yourself. The ceiling
had been whitened. The faded drab woodwork had been painted white.
The walls had been colored a beautiful soft yellow. Back of the
counter a series of shelves, glassed in by sliding doors, ran the
whole length of the wall and nearly to the ceiling. Behind the show
case stood a comfortable, cushioned swivel-chair.
“The stuff you’ve been buying, Petronilla,” Billy said, pointing to
a big pile of boxes in the corner. “Now, while Granny and I are
putting some last touches to the rooms upstairs, you might be
arranging the window.”
“That’s just what I planned to do,” Maida said, bubbling with
importance. “But you promise not to interrupt me till it’s all
done.”
“All right,” Billy agreed, smiling peculiarly. He continued to smile
as he opened the boxes.
It did not occur to Maida to ask them what they were going to do
upstairs. It did not occur to her even to go up there. From time to
time, she heard Granny and Billy laughing. “One of Billy’s jokes,”
she said to herself. Once she thought she heard the chirp of a bird,
but she would not leave her work to find out what it was.
When the twelve o’clock whistle blew, she called to Granny and to
Billy to come to see the results of her morning’s labor.
“I say!” Billy emitted a long loud whistle.
“Oh, do you like it?” Maida asked anxiously.
“It’s a grand piece of work, Petronilla,” Billy said heartily.
The window certainly struck the key-note of the season. Tops of all
sizes and colors were arranged in pretty patterns in the middle.
Marbles of all kinds from the ten-for-a-cent “peeweezers” up to the
most beautiful, colored “agates” were displayed at the sides.
Jump-ropes of variegated colors with handles, brilliantly painted, were
festooned at the back. One of the window shelves had been furnished
like a tiny room. A whole family of dolls sat about on the tiny
sofas and chairs. On the other shelf lay neat piles of blank-books
and paper-blocks, with files of pens, pencils, and rubbers arranged
in a decorative pattern surrounding them all.
In the show case, fresh candies had been laid out carefully on
saucers and platters of glass. On the counter was a big, flowered
bowl.
“To-morrow, I’m going to fill that bowl with asters,” Maida
explained.
“OI’m sure the choild has done foine,” Granny Flynn said, “Oi cudn’t
have done betther mesilf.”
“Now come and look at your rooms, Petronilla,” Billy begged, his
eyes dancing.
Maida opened the door leading into the living-room. Then she
squealed her delight, not once, but continuously, like a very happy
little pig.
The room was as changed as if some good fairy had waved a magic wand
there. All the woodwork had turned a glistening white. The wall
paper blossomed with garlands of red roses, tied with snoods of red
ribbons. At each of the three windows waved sash curtains of a snowy
muslin. At each of the three sashes hung a golden cage with a pair
of golden canaries in it. Along each of the three sills marched pots
of brilliantly-blooming scarlet geraniums. A fire spluttered and
sparkled in the fireplace, and drawn up in front of it was a big
easy chair for Granny, and a small easy one for Maida. Familiar
things lay about, too. In one corner gleamed the cheerful face of
the tall old clock which marked the hours with so silvery a voice
and the moon-changes by such pretty pictures. In another corner
shone the polished surface of a spidery-legged little spinet. Maida
loved both these things almost as much as if they had been human
beings, for her mother and her grandmother and her great-grandmother
had loved them before her. Needed things caught her eyes everywhere.
Here was a little bookcase with all her favorite books. There was a
desk, stocked with business-like-looking blank-books. Even the
familiar table with Granny’s “Book of Saints” stood near the easy
chair. Granny’s spectacles lay on an open page, familiarly marking
the place.
In the center of the room stood a table set for three.
“It’s just the dearest place,” Maida said. “Billy, you’ve remembered
everything. I thought I heard a bird peep once, but I was too busy
to think about it.”
“Want to go upstairs?” Billy asked.
“I’d forgotten all about bedrooms.” Maida flew up the stairs as if
she had never known a crutch.
The two bedrooms were very simple, all white—woodwork, furniture,
beds, even the fur rugs on the floor. But they were wonderfully gay
from the beautiful paper that Billy had selected. In Granny’s room,
the walls imitated a flowered chintz. But in Maida’s room every
panel was different. And they all helped to tell the same happy
story of a day’s hunting in the time when men wore long feathered
hats on their curls, when ladies dressed like pictures and all
carried falcons on their wrists.
“Granny, Granny,” Maida called down to them, “Did you ever see any
place in all your life that felt so _homey_?”
“I guess it will do,” Billy said in an undertone.
That night, for the first time, Maida slept in the room over the
little shop.