The laundry itself was attacked ten days ago by the general paralysis
of the hotel’s functions, so far as the guests’ linen was concerned,
which has since had to be sent far inland by the enterprise of one
of the bathing-pavilion men, and precariously returned on a variable
date. I forget whether the laundry succumbed before or after the
closing of the refreshment-room. The hotel sold no strong drinks,
and the magnificent facilities of the bar were inadequately employed
by a soda fountain, a variety of mineral waters in bottles, a supply
of ginger ale, and lemons for lemonade. On an opposite counter were
Huyler’s candies, and a choice of chewing-gum; the salubrious pepsin,
or the merely innocent peppermint. When the moment for dismantling this
festive place arrived, with the unexpectedness of all the other moments
of our slow dehabilitation, I was present, and saw the presiding genius
packing up his stock of lemons. It gave me a peculiar pang. I had never
bought any of them, or wanted any, but I had personally acquainted
myself with almost every example of the fruit; I knew those lemons
apart, and from often study of them on their shelf, as I stood hardily
sipping my ginger ale before the counter, I was almost as intimate with
them as with the stock of the news-dealer.
I must say that as to the books his stock was terribly dull. He owned
himself that it was dull, and when I asked him where in the world he
got together such a lot of stupid books, he could only say that they
were such as were appointed to be sold in summer hotels by the news
company. The newspapers were rather better: if they were not livelier,
they were lighter, or at least more ephemeral. I bought freely of
them; the dailies in the mornings, and the weeklies in the afternoons,
with their longer leisure. I bought the magazines, which are now often
as cheap as the papers, and, unlike the books, are seldom dull all
through. Then I formed the intimacy of many illustrated papers which I
did not buy, but studied on the strings where they hung stretched high
over the counter. In one was the picture of a young lady habited in the
mingled colors of Yale and Princeton, with a Cupid throwing a football
at her heart. She was a great resource, and could not be stared out of
countenance.
Besides, there was on a wire frame over the showcase a platter, of
native decoration, representing the whole of Long Island in a railroad
map. It was a strangely ugly object, like some sort of sad, dissected
fish, but fascinating. The news-dealer and I had often discussed
its price, and I had invariably refused it at $1.25, though it was
originally put upon the market at $2.50.
After he had packed up his stock, I could hold out no longer. I looked
about for him, and found him playing checkers with the ex-keeper of
the refreshment-room. I asked him if that hideous platter had now
got down to a dollar, and he went and hunted it out of his stock.
Upon inspection he seemed to discover that it was still $1.25. In
a desperation I paid the money; and almost at the same moment the
news-dealer’s place knew him no more, and I remained with my platter
for a memorial of one of the weirdest experiences of a life which has
not been barren of weirdness.