THE PLACE OF CHANCE
At eleven o’clock that morning Jeanne found herself seated beside the
blue-eyed, laughing Merry in the front row of chairs of a big, bare
salesroom. Before them was a long, high platform. Back of the platform,
piled to the ceiling, was an odd assortment of boxes, bales, bags,
trunks and bundles, the week’s accumulation of articles lost or rejected
in the offices of a great express company.
The place was half filled when they arrived. All the front seats were
taken save two. From these, hats mysteriously disappeared as Merry
approached. She nodded Jeanne to one chair and chose another for
herself.
“Those men saved seats for us,” Jeanne whispered in surprise. “Do ladies
always get front seats?”
“Never!” Merry shook her head vigorously. “Ladies are no good. They bid
too high. After that they make a fuss because they’ve robbed
themselves.”
“But you?”
“I’m no lady! Me?” The Irish girl drew herself up proudly. “I’m a buyer.
They all know me, these men.
“Look, Weston!” She had turned to the man at her left. “This is Petite
Jeanne. She’s going to buy, just one lot. You’ll lay off, won’t you?”
“Does she belong to the union?” The ruddy-faced German grinned.
“Sure,” Merry laughed back.
“All right, we’ll lay off, won’t we?” He turned to the man at his side.
“Certainly.” The one who spoke seemed as much out of place there as did
Petite Jeanne. He was young and, in a way, handsome. His features were
regular, his forehead high. But about his eyes was a look of
dissatisfaction.
“His life is a story, an interesting story,” Jeanne told herself. “I’d
love to read it.” To this little French girl the world was a stage
indeed, and all men actors. She was to learn more of the ways of those
who haunt auction sales ere the day was done.
Had some great artist come upon that scene, he would surely have hidden
himself away behind boxes and bundles, to peer through some narrow crack
and prepare a hasty sketch which must in time be developed into an
immortal work of art. There they were, Jeanne and Merry, like two beings
from another world; two glowing spots of color, one orange, one bright
purple, against a dull tide of brown, gray and black. The scene about
them was grim and sordid. It spoke of the cluttered stalls of Maxwell
Street where the poor of the city quarrel over the rags that must serve
them in lieu of garments, and of grim, stark tenements where men
struggle in vain for warmth and bread.
There were deep lines in the faces of those who ranged themselves, tier
on tier, behind the girls, waiting patiently for the show, which was a
weekly auction, to begin. And yet there was to be seen in many a pair of
eyes a glint of pleasurable anticipation.
“Look at them,” Merry whispered, allowing her glance to sweep the
growing throng. “They are gamblers; gamblers all.”
“Gamblers!” Jeanne voiced her astonishment.
“They are. You shall see. And this is a gambling institution. The
auctioneer will tell them they are gambling. Perhaps you will hear him
say it. ‘It’s not what you can make, but what you stand to lose.’ He
says that. And yet they bid.
“You will hear them very soon, bidding six dollars, seven, eight for
three packages. What’s in the packages? They are wrapped tight. Not one
of them can know. They bet their money that the packages will increase
their meager pile of money.”
“And do they?”
“Very seldom. Oh, yes, sometimes there are fine new goods, silk
stockings, dresses, shoes. They can’t all be bad.
“But then, too, you may pay real money for a worthless bundle of rags or
a handful of broken dishes.
“So you see,” she added with a sigh, “it’s the call of the gambler that
brings them here.”
“And you,” said Jeanne, “do you also gamble?”
“Very seldom. I buy only what I can see. To-day there are lamps, good
ones, and not badly broken. I shall buy them. I can see two new
traveling bags. If they are empty they will sell for very little.
“But if they are full—” She threw back her shoulders and smiled. “Then
you shall see how they will bid. For in their dreams they see in those
bags, lost in the express by other people, a fortune in watches,
diamonds and silks.
“And what will they find? A few moth eaten garments, some old letters, a
book or two, and some worthless trinkets. Did you ever pack your
treasures in a traveling bag? Never.
“But when men are poor—” She sighed again. “They will gamble, for they
have little to lose and always dream of gaining much. And after all,
what is life without dreams?”
“Dreams! Ah, yes!” Jeanne answered. “And shall we not gamble a wee bit
to-day?”
“Just a wee bit.” Merry squeezed her hand. “One small package for you
and one for me.”
“Yes, yes, let’s do!” the little French girl whispered eagerly, “For
this is my luckee day.”