TRAVELING MYSTERIES
Even to Merry, who had never before visited her friends on Peoria Street
just off Maxwell Street, the shop of Weston was something of a shock. It
was nothing more than a hollow shell of a building with a great heap of
second-hand goods of all sorts piled in one corner. Not a shelf, counter
or table adorned this bleak interior. The plaster was cracked, the walls
threatening to fall.
“I sell all in the street,” he explained in answer to their looks of
astonishment. With a wave of his hand he indicated rough board counters
where a miscellaneous assortment of human beings were pawing over a
stock in trade as varied as themselves.
Now and again one would hold up an article in one hand, a coin in the
other, and a bargain was speedily made.
“I don’t see how he lives,” Petite Jeanne whispered.
“He’s been doing this for twenty years, and he’s not bankrupt yet,”
Merry whispered back.
They were led next to the shop of Kay King. This boasted of some little
magnificence. There were shelves and tables and one glass showcase.
Since his principal stock was composed of second-hand books, the wall
was lined with them.
“A curious place for a book store, this Maxwell Street,” Dan Baker
mused.
“I don’t do so badly,” Kay King smiled. “The poor wish to read. And here
for a nickel, a dime, a quarter, I sell them a lamp to their feet, a
light to their pathway.”
“Truly a missionary enterprise in a city wilderness,” the gentle old man
murmured.
As for Petite Jeanne, her eyes had roamed up and down the dusty rows of
books and had come to rest at last upon a badly hung pair of portieres
at the back of the room.
“That,” she told herself, “is where he sleeps when the day is done, a
dark and dingy hole.
“And yet,” she mused, “who can help admiring him? Here in his dingy
little world he is master of his own destiny. While others who sell
books march down each morning to punch a clock and remain bowing and
scraping, saying ‘Yes mam’ this and ‘Yes mam’ that to females who think
themselves superior beings, he moves happily among his own books selling
when and as he chooses.”
Her reflections were broken off by a word from Kay King himself.
“There’s a story in every one.” He nodded toward the row of trunks and
bags they had come to inspect.
“Little does one dream as he packs his trunk for a journey that he may
never see that trunk again. Sad as it may seem, this is often the case.
“So, all unconscious of curious prying eyes, we tuck the very stories of
our lives away in our trunks and watch them go speeding away in a motor
van.”
“How?” Petite Jeanne asked.
“How? Look at this. Here is one I purchased some time ago.” He swung a
large, strongly built wardrobe trunk about, threw it open and produced a
bundle of letters. “This,” he explained, “is a young man. These letters
are from his mother. And these,” he produced another packet, “are from
other women. Still others are from his pals. They tell his story. And
what a story! Bright, well educated, from a good family. But oh, such a
rotter! He betrays his employer, his sweetheart, his pals. He deludes
his trusting mother. And, how he lies to her!
“It is all written here.” He patted the letters.
“I had a letter from him yesterday,” he continued. “He wants the trunk;
says it is a treasure and an heirloom; wants the contents, too; says
sentiment makes him treasure these things. Sentiment!” He fairly
stormed. “He knows but one emotion! He loves; ah yes, he loves himself
supremely! He has not a redeeming trait.
“He wants this trunk because he is afraid. Afraid of me!” His laugh was
bitter. “Me! I never hurt a flea. I only wish I could; that I were hard
and ruthless as some men are, stamping their way through, trampling over
others to fortune!
“But he shall pay,” he went on more calmly after a moment. “I mean to
charge him twenty dollars.
“Then,” he smiled, “I shall return this one to its owners free.” He
placed a hand on a sturdy little army locker. “This one belongs to a
little family. How many trunks do! Father, mother and the little ones,
all their clothes in one trunk! And then lost!
“There should be a society for the return of lost baggage to poor
people.
“There are many like these. People come to a strange city for work.
There is no work. They leave their trunks in the depot. Storage piles
up. They cannot pay.
“But this must bore you!”
“No, no! Please go on.”
“There is not much more to tell. See!” He lifted the lid of the trunk.
“Everything is spotlessly clean. A man’s shirts, a woman’s house
dresses, little frocks and rompers for two tiny girls. Poor folks they
are, like you and me. He was a soldier, too. There is a sharp-shooter’s
medal on a pin cushion. There’s a child’s birth certificate, a doll with
its nose kissed white, and a small Bible. They lost all that.
“And I—I shall send it back.”
“They will pay you,” said Petite Jeanne.
“They will not pay. They cannot. Some are always poor. These are like
that.
“But this one—” His lips curled in sudden scorn. “This big boy who goes
strutting through the world, he shall pay, and I shall pass it on to
these who need and perhaps deserve it.
“But I am keeping you here!” he cried. “Here are the trunks we have
saved for your own eyes. You will see that Weston has spoken truthfully.
They are filled for the most part with junk. But now and then there is a
story, a real story of some romantic life. See, this one opens easily. I
have found a key for it.”
“Wait!” On Jeanne’s face was a look almost of distress. “You have told
me so much. It seems so cruel that we should pry into their lives.
It—it’s like coming upon people in the dark. I—I’m afraid. I—”
“Oh, come!” he laughed. “It’s not half as bad as that. Probably we won’t
come upon anything of interest at all. Indeed that’s almost sure to be
the case, and I am inclined to repent inviting you here.” So saying, he
lifted the lid of the first of the row of trunks, and the show began.