BUYING A DUKE
FROM the lakes the B. A.’s traveled slowly and merrily to
London, where they established themselves at a quiet boarding-house
overlooking a pretty square, and plunged into a mad delirium of
sight-seeing and shopping.
“I never felt pulled in so many directions in my life,” complained Babe
wearily. “The shop-windows are so fascinating, and things are all so
cheap, and it’s such fun paying for them in this comical English money.”
“And your friends will all be so glad to get whatever you don’t want
for yourself because it came from abroad,” put in Babbie. “I’m going to
do all my Christmas shopping here and in Paris.”
“Yes, I want to, too,” agreed Babe, “but all the time I’m in the shops
I keep thinking how the places I’ve wanted to see for ages and perhaps
never can see again are all within a stone’s throw--well, within a
’bus-ride, if you like that better, and I decide to go sight-seeing
with Madeline. But when you and Mrs. Hildreth and Betty come home at
night with all your fascinating packages from Liberty’s and the Irish
lace stores, why then I wish I’d shopped.”
“You can’t have everything,” said Madeline sagely. “That’s been my
motto for years, and it’s never so useful as when I’m traveling. You
don’t enjoy anything unless you make up your mind not to worry about
the things you’ve got to miss. I’m going shopping myself to-morrow.”
“I thought you hated it,” exclaimed all her auditors at once.
“But this isn’t any ordinary shopping tour. I’m going to buy Eleanor’s
duke--that is, if the rest of you will trust me to pick him out.”
“Of course we will,” said Babbie, “but why can’t we all come, too, and
help?”
“Babbie, you promised me you would stay quietly at home to-morrow and
rest,” Mrs. Hildreth reminded her.
“Well, so I will,” Babbie gave up cheerfully. “And Babe has a luncheon
engagement with the friend from home that she met in the American
express office.”
“Then Betty and I will go duke-hunting,” said Madeline. “That suits me
perfectly. Too many matchmakers would be fatal. The duke would detect
our eagerness and demand an exorbitant settlement. Dukes come high, you
know, at best, so be prepared to be generous with your shillings.”
“Oh, Madeline, do tell us what you’re going to get,” begged Babbie. But
Madeline only smiled mysteriously and told Mrs. Hildreth that she and
Betty probably shouldn’t be back for luncheon.
Next morning when they were safely out of ear-shot she divulged her
idea. “You know those pretty old Staffordshire china figures? The
spotted dogs are the commonest, but there are men and women, too.
Oh, you must have seen them, Betty, in the windows of the antique
shops--shepherdesses with looped-up skirts, leaning on their crooks,
and cute little men with lace ruffles at their wrists and pink coats
and silver knee-buckles. They look awfully aristocratic; somehow, I
don’t think we could get a better duke.”
Betty hadn’t noticed anything of the sort, so they went a block out
of their way down Oxford Street to see some in a shop that Madeline
remembered. Sure enough, the window was full of the queer little china
figures, and there was one that Betty declared was just the duke for
Eleanor.
“Let’s go right in and get it,” she urged jubilantly. “It’s so quaint
and--oh, so European somehow. Eleanor will be perfectly delighted.”
Madeline laughed at her innocent enthusiasm. “We can’t afford to buy
it here,” she warned her. “Those figures are dreadfully expensive. In
a fashionable neighborhood like this they’d probably ask eight or ten
dollars for that duke. But the other day when Babe and I were riding
on a ’bus away out toward Hammersmith to see how far you could go for
fourpence, I noticed a whole cluster of antique shops, and I thought we
might find a real bargain out there.”
“But this is such a pretty, graceful little figure,” said Betty
doubtfully. “How much are we going to spend for each of the girls?”
“The gargoyles and the photograph that Helen wanted won’t be over
sixty cents, so I suppose we ought to find something at about that
price for the general present to Eleanor and Bob. Then, of course, we
can any of us take any of them whatever extra things we like.”
“Let’s just ask about this duke,” urged Betty, who had lost her heart
to the little china figure, and couldn’t believe it cost as much as
Madeline thought.
But “Thirty-five shillings,” said the pompous shop-keeper, and Betty
had to explain blushingly that she couldn’t afford so much that morning.
“That’s eight dollars and seventy-five cents,” she said dejectedly, as
they went off to find the Hammersmith ’bus. “We can’t ever get one for
sixty cents, Madeline. The neighborhood wouldn’t make eight dollars
difference.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Madeline easily. “I’ve bought silver boxes
in Holland for thirty cents and matched them on Fifth Avenue for five
dollars. Anyhow it will be fun hunting.”
It was fun. The Hammersmith shops were crowded with all sorts of
interesting old odds-and-ends, the like of which Betty had never seen
before. She admired the glib way in which Madeline chatted with the
shop-keepers about strange things like black Wedgwood, Chippendale
chairs, and Flemish inlay. But when they inquired for Staffordshire
figures no one seemed to have any, or at least not any that could pass
for a duke. But every one was very obliging about suggesting more shops
to try, and when that particular neighborhood was quite exhausted some
one sent the girls off on what proved to be a wild goose chase to the
shops near Nottinghill Gate, “where there isn’t any hill nor any gate,”
as Betty explained later, in relating the day’s adventures, “so how can
you tell when to get off the ’bus?”
And as they couldn’t tell, they were carried six blocks past and had
to walk back in the noonday heat, only to find that the biggest shop,
which had been so highly recommended, kept nothing but brasses.
“We’ll go in here,” said Madeline, opening the door of a dusky little
second-hand store with an impatient jerk, “and if they haven’t what
we want we’ll stop. Yes, no matter if they tell us positively that
a shop round the corner is packed tight with Staffordshire figures,
we won’t go to it. Instead we’ll go and get a cool and luscious
luncheon,--though where we can find one in this dingy neighborhood, I’m
sure I don’t know.”
A small girl with wisps of tow-colored hair falling over her eyes came
out from a back room to see what they wanted.
She shook her head doubtfully when Madeline mentioned Staffordshire.
“I’m sure I couldn’t say, ma’am. She’s out--the madame is--and I
couldn’t rightly say what we have. Would you know it if you saw it? You
might look about then.”
So they “looked about,” among the curious agglomeration of mirrors,
candlesticks, lustre jugs, cameos, and time-stained engravings, all
standing in dusty disarray on top of Queen Anne sideboards, carved
centre tables, and beautiful old Sheraton writing-desks with secret
compartments, that set Betty, who was having her first taste of the
delights of antique-hunting, wild with delight. But though they poked
into every nook and corner, no Staffordshire figures came to light.
“Well, we shall have to give it up,” said Madeline dejectedly. “How
much is that lustre pitcher, please--the fat little one with the roses
in the border?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” confessed the little maid sadly. “You see very
few comes here in the morning, and it’s so very difficult remembering
the prices, ma’am.”
“Oh, dear!” Madeline wanted the fat little pitcher all the more now
that she couldn’t have it. “When will the owner of the shop be back, do
you think?”
“Oh, I really couldn’t say, ma’am. In an hour perhaps, and maybe not
till time for tea. You see it’s Friday, and she’s gone to market. But
she went early to-day, so she might be back early.”
“But does it ever take her all day to do the family marketing?” asked
Madeline curiously.
“Oh, it’s not for the family, ma’am; it’s for the shop she’s buying.
Everybody goes to the market on Fridays.”
“Whom do you mean by everybody?”
“Why, all the dealers in London, ma’am. The madame buys almost
everything there. Things go very cheap there, you see. It’s a pity she
didn’t know what you were wanting, or she’d have found it for you this
morning. You can find almost anything at the market if you look sharp.”
“I suppose you couldn’t tell us how to get there?” inquired Madeline
tentatively.
Oh, yes she could; any one in London could do that. It was the
Caledonian market, you understand. First you took the Underground to
King’s Cross, and then you took the ’bus to Market Road, and any one
would tell you where to get down. And after that it was just a step to
the market.
“What a find!” Madeline caught Betty’s arm as soon as they were
outside, and fairly danced her down the street. “We shall get all sorts
of bargains in dukes there, and then it’s such a lovely stunt hunting
them along with all the dealers in London. We’ll buy some fruit and eat
it on the Underground. Where is the Underground, I wonder? She said
everybody went there Friday mornings. Should you think it would close
at twelve or at one?”
Of course Betty hadn’t the least idea. In fact she couldn’t quite
see what there was to be so excited about, but as usual she took
Madeline’s word for it.
“Markets are great,” Madeline explained when they had at last found the
Underground. “I’ve been to the rag-fair in Rome and the Christmas-sale
in Paris, and they were both no end of fun. Some one told father about
a big market in London, but he never could find it. Won’t he be envious
when I bring out my trophies!”
When they got into the ’bus for Market Road nearly every other
passenger was laden with a big basket.
“They’re going to market, too,” Madeline nudged Betty. “So we’re not
hopelessly late after all.”
When they had turned in at the big gates Betty stared about her in
amazement. The vast open space was thronged with a laughing, chattering
crowd of buyers. But above the noise they made rose the strident cries
of the marketmen.
“Penny a mar-r-r-ket bunch!”
“Whatever-you-like at yer own price.”
“Rusty nails! Rusty na-ils!”
It took time to disentangle even those few cries from the multitude of
strange announcements.
“Who would want rusty nails?” demanded Betty.
“I don’t know, but there they are--pounds and pounds of them. Somebody
must want them or they wouldn’t be here. Isn’t it fun having everything
spread out on the ground?”
“Literally everything,” laughed Betty. “Books and china and second-hand
calico wrappers, and--yes, Madeline, second-hand tooth-brushes, right
next to that lovely inlaid furniture.”
“And there’s a Persian kitten,” added Madeline. “Poor little pussy! She
looks frightened half to death.”
“And hats and furs,” put in Betty.
“And jewelry. Betty, I’ll buy you a penny pin as a memento. Choose.”
Betty chose a brooch consisting of a very realistic red raspberry and
two green leaves. “Thank you,” she said, “and isn’t that a lustre-ware
pitcher?”
It was, and it was in the collection of a man who was crying,
“Whatever-ye-like at yer own price,” at the top of his lungs.
“A shilling,” Madeline offered boldly, pointing to the pitcher.
“Three,” retorted the man decisively.
“But you just said, ‘Whatever you like at your own price,’” Madeline
reminded him.
The man winked cheerfully. “Any of this rubbish, ma’am, I mean.” He
picked up a handful of the rusty nails. “You want only the good things.
The pitcher’s a bargain at three bob.”
“Have you any Staffordshire figures?” asked Madeline.
The man rummaged in a basket and produced two little white lambs, each
standing on a hillock of green grass.
“Oh, how cunning,” murmured Betty. “I simply must have those.”
“Then don’t act too anxious, or he’ll put the price away up,” Madeline
whispered.
“You buy them,” Betty whispered back.
“We wanted a man’s figure,” explained Madeline nonchalantly. “You
haven’t any? Then I guess that’s all. How much are the lambs?”
“Thrippence.”
“I’ll take them,” cried Betty before Madeline could answer.
The man looked amusedly from one to the other. “You mustn’t quarrel
over the baa-lambs, ladies.”
“Oh, we won’t.” Betty held out her money. “Madeline, look!”
A wizened, grizzled little Jew, whose wares were spread out next to
those of the owner of the “baa-lambs,” had overheard their conversation
with his rival and was holding out a figure, the exact counterpart of
the one in the Oxford Street shop. Madeline pinched Betty to remind her
not to appear over-anxious.
“Oh, yes,” she said indifferently, holding out her hand for the little
figure and examining it carefully for cracks or nicks. “But now that
we’ve bought the lambs I don’t know--how much is this?”
“Five bob, and you can’t find another such bargain in London,” the
dealer assured her eagerly.
“What’s a bob?” whispered Betty.
“A shilling,” Madeline explained. Then she turned to the dealer. “Make
it two and six.”
[Illustration: “FOUR AND SIX!]”
“Four and six,” he compromised.
Madeline shook her head severely. “If you’d said three and six I might
have considered it. Come on, Betty.”
Betty stared in amazement. Was Madeline--yes, she was actually walking
off. She was going to leave that lovely duke. But just as Madeline
turned the corner, the little dealer jumped up, the figure in one hand
and a scrap of crumpled paper in the other, and with a bound he was at
Madeline’s elbow.
“Have it for three and six,” he whispered confidentially.
“Oh, very well.” Madeline accepted the bundle nonchalantly.
“Hallo, Madeline. What have you done him out of now?” Dick Blake was
standing in front of them, his face wreathed in smiles. “I thought
you’d be here to-day,” he went on. “I had a ‘leading,’ as we used to
say in Paris when we wanted to do a silly thing, that if I came up here
I should lose all the Americans but you. How do you like marketing with
Madeline, Miss Wales?”
“Oh, Dick, it’s jolly fun seeing you. But what on earth are you doing
here?”
“Pursuing you,” explained Dick cheerfully. “Didn’t I just say so? When
I’m not pursuing you, I’m pursuing a magnate. He’s more elusive,--or at
least I don’t know his habits so well, and up to date I haven’t found
him. But I take my success with you to be a good omen. I’m sure I shall
spot my magnate before long.”
“Please talk sense, Dick.”
“I am,” he assured her solemnly. “You see it’s this way. New York was
hot and stupid, with everybody gone who could manage to get away, and I
wanted to go, too. But ‘The Quiver’ hasn’t been exactly booming lately,
and I couldn’t afford a nice trip.”
“Meaning a trip to Europe,” interposed Madeline.
“Exactly,” Dick took her up. “So I was feeling awfully blue, and then a
week ago to-night my old chief down in Newspaper Row ’phoned and said,
‘Dickie, you’re the best hunter we ever had. Go to Europe and find an
elusive magnate, whose mysterious absence is upsetting Wall Street
prices,’ and I said, ‘Done,’ and made up ‘The Quiver’ for two months
ahead, and here I am. I got to Liverpool last night and to London this
morning, and so far I’ve ascertained that the Elusive Magnate aforesaid
isn’t staying at any of the likely hotels.”
“Dick, you are too absurd,” laughed Madeline. “What’s your magnate’s
name?”
“Morton--Jasper Jones Morton. Haven’t seen him, have you?”
“I haven’t the pleasure of his acquaintance. Have you, Betty?”
Betty shook her head smilingly.
“I’ve got his picture here somewhere.” Dick felt in his pocket and
drew out a cabinet photograph. “He’s not exactly handsome and he’s
never gone in for society, but he’s really very well-to-do, and when he
suddenly departs for the first vacation of his long and useful life,
just when his railroads are in a good deal of a muddle and several
of his corporations are being sued by Uncle Sam, why, naturally Wall
Street sits up and takes notice.” He passed the picture to Madeline.
“Why, Betty, it’s our magnate,” she cried laughingly, and Betty,
looking at the picture over her shoulder, gave a little shriek of
delight. “It is,” she cried.
Dick looked in amazement from one to the other. “I say, have you really
met him?” he demanded. “Where was he, and which way was he headed? He
didn’t drop any hints about his reasons for being over here, did he?”
Madeline looked at Betty. “You talked to him most.”
“Do you mean did he say whether he is over here just on a vacation for
his health?” asked Betty.
Dick nodded, and she repeated Mr. Jasper Jones Morton’s anathemas
against vacations, doctors, and European travel. “I’m sure he was
telling the truth,” she added earnestly. “He said it all as if he meant
it,--he couldn’t have been making up.”
“Having conversed with him about other things he doesn’t like, I catch
your point,” chuckled Dick. “J. J. Morton’s earnest hatred is very
earnest indeed.” Then he grew sober suddenly. “I wonder where’s the
nearest place to cable from. I must get this off at once. Miss Wales,
you’ve done me the best kind of a good turn. You don’t mind my taking
your story, do you, since you haven’t any possible use for it?”
“Mr. Morton won’t mind, will he?” asked Betty anxiously. “He was
awfully nice to us, and it would be mean to take advantage of him.”
“No,” said Dick, “I honestly don’t think he’ll mind. I don’t believe
he wants the market to go to smash on his account. And to me it
means--well, I haven’t been here a day yet; and the chief gave me a
week to find him and get an interview. So it means the biggest kind
of a big beat, Miss Wales, and that means a juicy fee and a juicy
fee means----” Dick stopped suddenly, bit his lip, and then laughed.
“I didn’t use to be so mercenary, did I, Madeline? Then I have your
consent, Miss Wales? Are you girls coming back with me?”
For the first part of the long ride Dick Blake was silent, his face
puckered into deep wrinkles of thought. All at once he threw back his
head and laughed merrily. “I’ve got it,” he said, “head-lines and all.
Now we can talk. What did you do the little Jew out of, Madeline?”
“Oh, we were buying a duke for Eleanor Watson,” explained Madeline
tantalizingly. “She wants one, you know.”
The worried look came back to Dick’s fine gray eyes. “Go slow,
Madeline. You were buying---- Eleanor wants a duke?”
Madeline took pity on him and unwrapped the dainty figurine, which Dick
duly admired.
“By the way, Miss Wales,” he began suddenly, “you don’t know where
Jasper J. went from Grasmere, I suppose.”
Betty repeated what the old gentleman had said about the superiority of
French roads.
“Then I suppose I’d better cross the channel to-night,” sighed Dick,
“and here’s where I leave this ’bus. Wish I could go home with you and
see the rest of the ‘Merry Hearts’ and have a good talk. Good-bye, Miss
Wales. So long, Madeline. See you again somewhere over here.” And he
was gone.
“Well,” Madeline told the others, when they reached home, “we’ve got
the duke and he’s a darling, and we’ve found out the name of the
Grasmere magnate, and Betty’s been being a B. A. again--to whom in the
world do you guess, but Dick Blake. It will be in all the New York
papers to-morrow morning. How’s that for a strenuous day of it?”