WHAT SCOOP DID
I imagined that I could feel the bump on my head getting bigger and
bigger as I sat on the rock with my cap in my lap and my four boxes of
Mr. Gallywiggle’s beauty soap in my cap.
And when I thought of how the bump came to be there, so big and
painful, I said to myself, in just anger over Mrs. Pederson’s
unwarranted attack, that I hoped that she would get her pay for banging
me up.
For one thing, I hoped that she would become homelier and homelier. She
could become as homely as an old mud fence and I wouldn’t let her have
a single cake of my beauty soap. No, I wouldn’t! She could stay homely
for the next million years for all I cared. I’d let some other woman
have my soap to get beautiful with—some deserving woman who was kind to
boys and used them in the way that boys should be used—good boys, I
mean, like myself.
Then I quit grouching in my mind, sort of, to watch Scoop. He was close
to the farmhouse porch, where Mrs. Pederson was still standing, broom
in hand, I didn’t want to miss the fun of seeing her land on him.
Pretty soon, I told myself, he would be yelping for help. I grinned,
forgetful of my bump, in the thought of it.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pederson,” I heard him say. My, he was polite! His
voice was all honey and cream. I got up and went closer.
There was a flower bed beside the porch. He let on as though he was
awfully surprised and tickled to find the flower bed there. From his
actions you would have thought that a flower bed—this flower bed—was
the most wonderful and the most important thing in the world.
He ran over and got down on his knees and began touching the flowers as
though he was in love with them. He stuck out his nose and smelled of
the blossoms with his eyes squinting into the sky. I could imagine from
the expression on his face that he was seeing angels. But when I looked
up all that I saw was a crow.
“Such beau-utiful geraniums,” he gurgled, letting the word “beautiful”
sort of string out, as though it was hard for him to bite off some of
the letters. “My,” he said, “it must take a lot of skill and a lot of
patience to raise such beau-utiful flowers. Ma says it’s a knack. She
can’t raise sunflowers, hardly. Isn’t this a Martha Washington?”
“Um....” said Mrs. Pederson, thawing out, sort of.
“And I do declare!” Scoop gurgled, acting as though he had just
discovered a diamond mine. “If here isn’t a rose geranium—a perfect
specimen. Why, it’s got four buds on it! And just look at this
blossom!” He raised his eyes. “Mrs. Pederson,” he said, sober, “you
ought to go into the flower business. Why, the way you can make flowers
grow you’d become rich and famous in no time at all.”
The flattered owner of the flowers left her broom on the porch and came
down the steps. Pretty soon she was on her knees beside the flower bed,
jabbering about the flowers as though she was crazy. Scoop was
jabbering too. It was very disgusting to me. For I saw what he was up
to. He was plastering her with soft soap, to get her dime, and she
didn’t have sense enough to realize it.
Well, they kept on talking about what a wonderful flower-raiser she
was, and how it was a gift, just like writing poetry, only she was
doing the most of the talking. Scoop just put in a word now and then to
keep her tongue in action.
Pretty soon he removed the covers of his four soap boxes. Counting the
cakes of soap, three cakes to a box, he next dumped the cakes onto the
grass and counted them. Mrs. Pederson stopped talking to watch him. He
counted the cakes a third time. Then he searched his pockets.
“Now,” he said to himself, in a worried voice, “doesn’t that beat the
Dutch?”
“You lose somedings?” inquired Mrs. Pederson, inquisitive-like.
She reached down to pick up one of the cakes of soap, curious, I
imagine, to feel of the soap and to smell of it, as I have seen women
do in the ten-cent stores. But Scoop quickly held out his hand and
headed her off. Then he took his handkerchief and flicked imaginary
particles of dust from the soap cake.
“This cake,” he told the flower raiser, “is the one that I’m saving for
Mrs. Tompkins to look at,” and he gave it another careful dusting,
squinting at it critical-like, his head cocked on one side. Then he
carefully dusted each cake in turn, taking a lot of time. “This one,”
he pointed out, “I’m saving for Mrs. Morrisy to look at and this one
for Mrs. Smith and this one for Mrs. Gronke and this one for——” Well,
in short, he named over practically all of the women in the
neighborhood, customers of his father’s grocery store.
Mrs. Pederson was busting with curiosity. She showed it in her actions.
She was thinking to herself, I imagine, that here was something going
on in the neighborhood that she didn’t know anything about. Probably
she felt slighted.
“What ’tis?” she inquired shrilly, a queer eager look in her eyes.
But Scoop was busy counting his soap and gave her no attention.
“I guess,” he said, still worried, “that I must have made a mistake. I
figured that I had an extra cake for you, Mrs. Pederson. But instead of
having twelve cakes, the number that I started out with, I can count
only eleven.”
The woman squinted eagerly at the cakes of soap that had been spread on
the grass in front of her.
“A new kind of soap?” she inquired.
“Bubbles of Beauty,” recited Scoop, “the wonder soap that makes all
women beautiful. Of course,” he added, “to a beautiful woman this soap
would be of no more use than a pair of skates would be to an Arab in
the Sahara Desert. But take a plain woman like—er—Mrs. Townsend——”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pederson quickly.
“And Mrs. Morrisy,” continued Scoop, naming another woman who lived in
the neighborhood.
“Yes.”
“Unfortunately,” said Scoop, “they aren’t beautiful. Still, they want
to be beautiful. Every woman does, I imagine. So you can imagine how
they will welcome our Bubbles of Beauty. But you mustn’t repeat what I
am telling you, Mrs. Pederson. Oh, no! For your neighbors would be as
mad as hops to have the story get out. They will want to have the
source of their sudden beauty kept a secret. Don’t you see?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Pederson.
Scoop again searched his pockets.
“It gets me,” he said, puzzled, “what I did with that extra cake—the
one that I was saving for you.” He counted the cakes on the grass. And
every time that his finger moved Mrs. Pederson’s eyes moved with it.
She had her nose so close to the soap that it was a wonder to me that
she kept her balance and didn’t fall forward on her face.
“I was going to let you have a cake,” said Scoop, “but you can see for
yourself that I have only enough to go around. Of course,” he added
quickly, “I realize that you haven’t any use for the soap yourself.
It’s only for women who aren’t beautiful. But I thought that you might
know of some poor, unfortunate woman who has been homely all her life,
with a sallow skin and warts and blemishes and wrinkles and——”
“Yes,” cut in Mrs. Pederson.
I began to think that “yes” was all she knew how to say.
“Considering what it does,” said Scoop, “the soap is very cheap at ten
cents a cake, or three cakes for a quarter. I’m sorry, Mrs. Pederson,
that I haven’t any extra cakes. I know how disappointed you are. No
doubt you are thinking of some unfortunate woman friend who has warts
and wrinkles; and, in your kind-hearted way, you would give anything,
almost, to be able to send this unfortunate friend a cake of our
marvelous Bubbles of Beauty, which has the directions for its proper
use printed on the bottom of each box. See, Mrs. Pederson?” and he
showed her the printing. “I’ll be over this fall,” he concluded, “for
the geranium slips that you promised me.”
He slowly gathered up the soap, patting each cake, sort of, as though
it was very dear to his heart. And he smelled of each cake and waved it
under Mrs. Pederson’s nose so that she could smell of it.
Suddenly he straightened and gave a glad cry.
“Why!... I know where my extra cake is.” He jerked off his cap and
there was the lost cake on top of his head. He must have placed it
under his cap while I was sitting on the rock.
Mrs. Pederson reached quickly for the soap.
“It will be ten cents,” Scoop told her, stepping back.
She hurried into the house and came out with her pocketbook.
When we were in the road, our leader looked back at the farmhouse and
laughed.
“That’s the time, Mrs. Pederson,” he said, “that we came out ahead.”
“Why didn’t you sell her a couple of boxes?” Tom inquired,
disappointed.
But Scoop shook his head.
“No. That wasn’t a part of my scheme. As a matter of fact I took an
unfair advantage of her in selling her the one cake. I pretended. And
that isn’t good salesmanship. But you know why I did it.” He looked at
me and grinned. “Cheer up, Jerry. Watch how I do it. Then you’ll be
more successful next time.”
He was acting chesty again. It got under my skin. A fellow hates to be
as unlucky as I was. Mrs. Pederson had whanged me on the head with a
broom when I had tried to sell her a cake of beauty soap. And he had
hooked her for a dime, just as easy as pie.
“You talk as though you know a lot about salesmanship,” I spit out,
wanting to pick on him in my grouch.
“I know,” he said, waggling, “that good salesmanship is honest
salesmanship. For Pa says so.”
“Huh!”
He grinned at me in a tantalizing way.
“Jerry, you might make a good wheelbarrow inspector on a ditching
crew—something that doesn’t require any skull practice. But you haven’t
the necessary talent for soap peddling.”
“You hate yourself!”
“A thing you don’t understand,” he added, acting big, “is human
nature.”
“I don’t know how to be an old soft soap slinger, either,” I shot at
him.
It isn’t in me to get mad and stay mad. So pretty soon I got over my
grouch. Anyway, I admitted to myself, Scoop, with all of his conceit,
was deserving of some praise. For he had turned a neat trick,
succeeding where I had failed.
I know how to be fair.