JIMMY GOES SHOPPING
Jimmy was very conscientiously obeying Mart Proctor’s request to
practice punting. As a senior who was not overburdening himself with
extra courses, Jimmy had several periods of leisure between nine in
the morning and three in the afternoon, and while these periods came
at different hours on different days they never failed, and, as it
happened, Tuesdays came very close to being full holidays for him. On
those days his morning was blissfully free from the requirements of
class attendance, and not until eleven-thirty did his schedule mean
a thing to him. Usually there was some one on the field when Jimmy
arrived who was quite willing to chase his punts and kick them back to
him, and so he had already put in a good many hours of work outside
the regular practice sessions. He had requisitioned a football from
Jake and kept it in his room, since more often than not he went from
dormitory to field without stopping at the gymnasium for a change of
raiment. Casting aside his jacket, he was ready for the task, since
he always affected knickerbockers. An old pair of football shoes, one
having a tan lacing and the other a black, which ordinarily kicked
about under his bed collecting dust, were donned before leaving the
room. On Tuesdays, however, Jimmy dressed for the work and engaged the
aid of some football aspirant whose hours of leisure matched his.
On this particular Tuesday, the day following the small events narrated
in the preceding chapter, Jimmy, having picked up the football from
where it had lodged under Stanley’s bed, viewed it with disapprobation.
It was a very old ball, and a very scarred and battered one. As Jimmy
mentally phrased it, it had whiskers all over it, by which he meant
that what may be termed the epidermis of the ball was abraded and
scruffy and adorned with little--for want of a better word--hang-nails
of leather which in Jimmy’s opinion mitigated seriously against both
distance and accuracy. Of course he couldn’t expect a brand-new ball,
but it did seem as if Jake might have found one less feeble and senile
than this! Why, the poor thing ought to have been retired on a pension
years ago! Jimmy viewed it dubiously and at last distastefully,
dropping it from one hand to the other. If he had a decent ball to work
with--
Well, why not? If the management wouldn’t afford him one, why not buy
one of his own? Why not indeed? Jimmy tossed the ancient pigskin from
him, unmindful of direction or ultimate destination, pulled out the
top drawer of his chiffonier and selected two bills from a number
that reposed in a small box there. Then he looked at his watch. He had
commandeered Neirsinger, a quarter-back candidate, for half-past nine.
It was now twelve minutes after. In eighteen minutes he could get to
West street, purchase a new football and--well, if not reach the field
at least get within sight of it. So, stuffing the money in a pocket, he
hurried forth and down the stairs and across the Green by an illegal
but well-defined path that led straight to the center gate. Being like
most of us a creature of habit, Jimmy’s subconscious mind was leading
him to Crocker’s hardware store, and to Crocker’s hardware store he
would have gone, so, doubtless, moving Stanley to reproaches, had his
eyes not caught sight of an unaccustomed object when, having traveled
the block between the Green and West street, he turned to his left on
the latter thoroughfare.
The object was suspended above a doorway a half-dozen rods from the
corner, a sign about two feet in length and somewhat less than a
foot and a half wide. It hung from a projecting wrought-iron rod, at
right angles to the building, and presented a bravely gay broadside
to the passers, for paint and gilt were still new and fresh upon it.
There was background of dead black against which was portrayed a
golden-brown football. Above and below the ball read the legend in
plain but quaintly old-fashioned lettering: Sign of the Football. The
letters, like the molding that surrounded the whole, were of gilt. In
its way, that swinging sign was quite a work of art, and Jimmy, who had
a keen appreciation of the picturesque, paid it tribute ere, stopping
stock-still two doors away, he viewed it fixedly, frowningly for a
moment. Then:
“‘Inverted bracket,’” he muttered triumphantly. “‘Inverted bracket.’
That’s it!”
He went on triumphantly, aware now that he had no business to transact
at Crocker’s, and wondering that he had forgotten the new store. Under
the glittering sign he stopped and observed the windows. In that at
his left were displayed four weary-looking geraniums, bearing a few
pink blossoms, in pots; two ornamental vases filled with dahlias of
various hues; a glass sign that leaned against the vases and proclaimed
in gold letters against a black ground: Pulsifer the Florist--Funerals
a Specialty; and, finally, somewhat in the background and so
unobtrusively suggestive, a wreath of artificial ivy and white roses.
Jimmy turned from this appalling display with a shudder and moved to
the window beyond.
This, he told himself commendingly, was better. Against an expanse
of clean white paper lay, at either side, a pennant; at the left the
gold-and-gray of Alton, at the right the blue-and-white of High School.
Between these had been assembled a fairly enticing array of seasonable
articles: a football, a head harness, a nose-guard, one of the small
horns affected by umpires, a shining nickel whistle, two pairs of
shoes, two pairs of woolen hose, a tennis racket, a box of felt-clad
balls and one or two other objects. Across the back of the window hung
a low curtain of dark blue material and against it was a colorful
poster: a brawny youth in togs, football nestled against his ribs,
arm outstretched, face stern with ferocious determination, spurning a
vividly green sod beneath flying feet. Below the figure was the cryptic
legend: “PandF spells Best.”
Jimmy entered the store. It wasn’t a very large store, even for West
street, and it was rather dark. On the left was the establishment
of J. Warren Pulsifer: a long counter, bare save for some wrapping
paper and a box of pins, a desk surrounded by iron grilling, a
refrigerator, or what looked like such, behind whose glass doors could
be indistinctly glimpsed a modest stock of flowers in tall, brown
papier-mâché receptacles. There were, also, two tiers of shelves back
of the counter, and these held an array of dusty boxes. Behind the iron
grilling a tall, dejected looking man with faded hair and mustache
looked anxiously up from his desk as Jimmy entered and then with a
slump of his narrow shoulders that was, Jimmy was certain, accompanied
by a sigh of relief, returned to his occupation.
The other side of the store held a duplicate of the long counter, but
it had been recently varnished and so presented a different appearance.
Varnished, also, had been the shelves beyond, while a six-foot
show-case near the entrance lent an added air of luxury. In fact, this
side of the store was, in contrast, almost startlingly gay. Boxes
of various colors thronged the shelves, pennants hung above them, a
blue-and-white sweater lay across the counter, articles of leather and
metal gleamed from the show-case, show-cards and posters and placards
were numerous. Jimmy thought, in fact, that there were rather too many
of these latter, even if they did lend a certain air of business.
Viewing cannily the, after all, rather scanty furnishings and stock on
hand, he felt that there was something akin to bravado in that display
of advertising placards.
There was but one customer within when Jimmy arrived, a small youth
of perhaps a dozen years who was frowning doubtfully over a helmet
displayed before him on the counter. Behind the latter stood the
senior partner of the new firm, and at Jimmy’s appearance he looked up
inquiringly.
“Hello,” said Jimmy, ending his leisurely inspection of the premises.
“I’d like to get a football, please. No hurry.” He had quite forgotten
Neirsinger and the flight of time.
“Just a moment,” answered Russell. The boy laid the helmet down with a
sigh of rejection.
“Maybe I’ll be back,” he muttered, and turned away from the counter
with a last desirous look at the article.
“All right,” replied Russell cordially. “Glad to see you.”
Jimmy smiled as Russell turned to him. “Didn’t have enough money, I
guess,” he said.
Russell shook his head, and smiled, too. “I showed him a cheaper one,
and one that would have fitted him, but he said he wanted to buy one he
could ‘grow into’! You wanted a football?” He reached to a shelf behind
him, drew down a box, set it on the counter and took the lid off. The
box was empty, and he pushed it aside and reached for another. “Silly
to put the empties back on the shelf,” he said carelessly as he opened
the next box. Jimmy’s gaze roved over the rows of boxes and he smiled
quizzically, but to himself.
The football looked very good to him as he searchingly examined it, but
it was different from those he had been used to, a fact explained when
his eyes fell on a design lightly burned into the outer leather. It was
a diamond enclosing the characters “P. & F.” Curiosity clamored. “Say,
for the love of lemons, Emerson, what does ‘P. & F.’ mean?” he demanded.
“Proctor and Farnham. They’re the makers. Ever used any of their goods?”
“No, never heard of them. New folks?”
“New in the East. They’ve been making footballs and things for years
and selling in the West. They’ve just begun to go after this part of
the country and we succeeded in getting the agency here. Very good
stuff they make. Notice the way that ball is sewed? Those seams can’t
open in a hundred years, I guess. And that leather’s the best horsehide
procurable. There’s a big difference in leather, you know. Some balls
scuff up the first time they’re used after they’ve been once wet.”
Jimmy nodded. “I know. Looks pretty good, still I’m sort of used to the
other balls, Emerson.”
“I can sell you your kind,” Russell returned, “but I’d like awfully
to have you try one of these. You see, fellows are sort of shy of new
things and you’ve got to get them started. After that they go all
right. If you care to try this Proctor and Farnham ball I’ll guarantee
to give you a new ball or your money back if you decide you don’t like
it after a fair trial.”
“Fair enough,” said Jimmy. “I’ll take it. By the way, what’s the
price?” His eyebrows lifted when he heard it and he frowned a little.
“What’s the price of the others?”
“Just the same,” replied Russell, folding a paper neatly about the
pasteboard box.
“But that’s forty cents less than Crocker asks!” protested Jimmy.
“Then they ask forty cents too much,” answered the other calmly. “I
think you’ll find Crocker’s prices going down before long.”
“I wouldn’t wonder,” agreed Jimmy. He picked up a pair of greenish-gray
sport hose from the counter. “How much are these?”
“Three and a half,” said Russell. “We’ve got some good ones for less,
though.”
“Guess I don’t need any just now, but those are mighty good-looking.
Doing any business yet, Emerson?”
“Fair,” answered Russell, exchanging the bundle for Jimmy’s money. “Of
course, it takes time to get started.”
“I suppose so.” With bundle in hand, Jimmy showed little inclination
to hurry away. “You seem to have a pretty big stock here,” he went on.
“Must take some money to get a place like this going.”
Russell nodded. “Quite a bit,” he agreed. “We haven’t laid in much
except fall stuff yet. Have to go a bit slow at first.”
“Yes,” mused Jimmy. He was wondering if the storekeeper recognized him.
If he had he certainly hadn’t shown it by so much as a flicker of his
eye-lids. “Say, I saw you at that hotel at Pine Harbor, didn’t I?” he
asked.
“Yes, I waited on you there,” replied Russell readily.
“I thought so,” murmured Jimmy. He was sitting on the edge of the
counter now, swinging his legs thoughtfully. “Say, Emerson, I like
your pluck,” he continued after a moment. “Working there at the hotel,
you know, and then starting this place. Makes me feel downright lazy
and no-good, though. Hope you’ll have all kinds of success.”
“Thanks,” said Russell, a little surprised. “I guess I wouldn’t be
doing either thing if I didn’t have to, though, Austen; so I suppose
there isn’t much credit coming to me.”
“Rot!” said Jimmy. “Lots of fellows need money and never think of
getting out and hustling for it. They just let the old man come across
with it. Don’t see why a fellow shouldn’t help his folks put him
through school and college. Wish I could do it myself!”
“Can’t you?” laughed Russell.
Jimmy shook his head and frowned. “Wouldn’t know what to do nor how to
do it,” he answered. “Besides, my father wouldn’t--” But he stopped
there. “How do you fix it for time?” he resumed. “I mean, don’t
recitations interfere with looking after this place?”
“Yes, but we manage pretty well. You see, Patterson’s a senior and I’m
a junior, and most days we make it go all right. If we can’t either
of us be here Mr. Pulsifer explains that we’ll be back in an hour. I
suppose we lose some customers that way, but it can’t be helped. The
store is closed for an hour at noon, too, but lots of them do that in
this part of town. To-day I’m here until a couple of minutes to ten and
then Stick--that’s my partner--stays until twelve. I’m here always in
the afternoon from three-thirty to six, and sometimes Stick comes over,
too. When there’s no one to wait on we can study pretty well here.”
“I thought you were playing football with the second, though,” said
Jimmy.
“I had to give it up,” replied Russell. “Some one has to be here
afternoons, and three mornings a week I can’t get around at all and
Stick has to do it all.”
“Too bad, though,” Jimmy said. “About football, I mean. Still, maybe
they don’t need you much. The scrubs have been pushing us around pretty
fiercely so far.” Jimmy looked at his watch, whistled and jumped to
the floor. “I must be getting back. I’ll give this ball a try-out this
morning, Emerson, and let you know how I like it. And I’ll see that
fellows know about your prices, too! Good luck!”
So Jimmy went his way briskly, a full twenty minutes late, and Russell,
folding up the stockings that the customer had admired, smiled
contentedly. He had at last succeeded in selling a “P. & F.” football,
after several attempts, and, fortunately, to a fellow who, for some
unknown reason, was anxious to boost the store. Russell decided to
order four more balls that very day, since, in spite of the brave array
of boxes on the shelf which looked as if they might contain footballs,
the only other ball in stock reposed in the window!
When, presently, Stick Patterson arrived Russell announced to him
the sale with much satisfaction and delegated to him the writing and
mailing of the order to New York. Stick was equally pleased, but he
voiced doubts as to the order. “They cost a lot of money, Rus,” he
said. “Better get two instead of four, don’t you think? We can order
two more later if those sell.”
“All right,” Russell agreed. Sometimes Stick’s conservatism was a
trifle dampening, but he realized that it wasn’t a bad idea to have
such a check on his enthusiasm. Without it his optimism might some day
lead him to an error of judgment. “I’ll bet we’ll sell them, though,
Stick. Austen’s sort of a leader in his crowd, and if he likes that
ball he will say so, and from what he said I know he wants to like it,
and I’m sure he will.”
“I fancy the ball’s all right,” returned Stick cautiously, “but not
many fellows buy them. Did he want tick?”
“No, he didn’t say anything about having it charged. I was mighty glad,
too, for I’d have hated to have lost a customer like him.”
“Wish the fellows that come around when I’m here were like that,”
retorted Stick. “They always want tick and get sore when I tell them we
don’t give credit. Any one else in, Rus?”
“Only a small kid looking at a helmet. He may be back. I tried to sell
him one of the cheap ones, but he wouldn’t have it. Well, I’ll run
along, Stick.”
“All right.” Stick seated himself behind the counter near the window,
leaned his chair back and opened his book. “Say, Rus, how much longer
do you think we can hold out if we don’t do any more business than
we’ve been doing?”
Russell stopped at the door and leaned across to speak in a voice so
lowered that it would not reach the rather prominent ears of Mr. J.
Warren Pulsifer. “About three weeks, Stick,” he said soberly. “But
we’re going to begin to sell things long before that, so don’t get the
crêpe out yet. You wait and see, Stick!”
“I’ll wait, all right,” grumbled Stick as the other hurried out, “but
I’m sure of one thing, and that is I wish I’d never let him get me into
this blamed partnership!”