THE NEW ASSISTANT
“If I only had a tin dinner-pail!” reflected Jimmy regretfully as
he turned into West street the next morning and caught sight of the
gay sign above the doorway of Number 112. His enthusiasm had brought
him there at a minute after half-past eight and to his surprise the
store was still locked. But Russell had provided him with a key and
Jimmy thrust it into the lock with an important air and swung open the
creaking door. The place exhaled a stale odor of withered flowers, and
Jimmy traversed the long aisle and threw open the rear door as well.
From the unwillingness displayed by the bolts he judged that that
portal was seldom disturbed. He looked out. There was a diminutive
yard there surrounded by a sagging board fence and littered with boxes
and rubbish. A gate gave onto a narrow alley beyond which was another
fence above whose rim could be seen the trees and white gables and red
chimney-tops of the residences on State street. Jimmy went back into
the store and looked about him. Through the front door came the morning
sunlight, displaying to his disapproving gaze a very dirty floor.
“Might as well do the thing right,” said Jimmy to himself. In a dark
corner stood a dilapidated broom. In the back yard he had noted a box
half-full of sawdust. Jimmy removed his coat, folded it, placed it
beneath the counter alongside the cigar box that did duty as a money
drawer for the Sign of the Football, and went to work. A small sink at
the back of the store provided water, and Jimmy moistened the sawdust
thoroughly and then, starting at the front of the place, sprinkled it
lavishly. After that, whistling blithely, he went to work. Now and
then he paused to observe a passer or to watch hopefully some one who
had paused outside the window. But no one infringed on his solitude;
no one, that is, until Jimmy had the sawdust swept nearly to the back
door. Then it was Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer who appeared.
He showed no surprise at Jimmy’s presence. Perhaps he had overheard
the arrangements being made yesterday. But he did show a concern that
almost amounted to disapproval. “H’m,” he said sadly, viewing the thick
windrow of dirty sawdust in front of the boy’s broom. “H’m.”
“Good morning,” responded Jimmy brightly. “Cleaning up a bit, you see,
sir.”
“Yes. H’m. Well, there’s a man comes in to do that the first of the
month. Washes the windows, too.”
“Whether it’s needed or not,” said Jimmy innocently.
“Sweeping makes a good deal of dust,” continued the other severely.
“Collects a good deal, too,” answered Jimmy, continuing toward the door.
Mr. Pulsifer pretended to be affected by the dust and coughed
delicately. “It’s bad for the flowers,” he said querulously. “I’d
rather you didn’t do it, my boy.”
He coughed again and went back to his wire enclosure. Being called
“my boy” grated on Jimmy and he leaned on the handle of his broom and
favored Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer with a malignant stare. Then he finished
his job, placed the now almost useless broom back in the dim corner,
washed his hands, dried them on his breeches for want of other means
and started after his coat.
“Please close the back door if you’re through,” said Mr. Pulsifer
drearily. “There’s a draft.”
Jimmy obeyed. When he had his coat on again he stationed himself behind
the small show-case and looked into the street. After a while that
occupation palled and he pulled a box down from a shelf and removed
the lid. It was empty. So was the next one. So were all boxes in that
tier. Jimmy grinned and tried the next pile. He was more fortunate.
Three gray sweaters rewarded him. He took one out, examined it, held
it before him and shook his head.
“Too small,” he muttered. The others were too small also. He put the
garments back and returned the box to its place. Then he surveyed the
goods in the window. Raising his eyes, he saw two boys doing the same
thing from beyond the glass. They weren’t Academy fellows, nor, since
the hour was now nine o’clock, could they be high school fellows. Yet
they were well dressed and appeared to have plenty of time on their
hands. In age they were evidently about sixteen years. Their gazes
were set on the tennis racket and they were discussing it seriously.
Jimmy could see their lips moving, but could hear no sounds. After a
moment he withdrew from sight and went swiftly to the doorway. There
he stepped just outside and leaned a shoulder negligently against the
frame. The two boys were still admiring and discussing. Jimmy started
to whistle, his gaze set across the street on Whitson’s Blue Front
Pharmacy. The sound drew the boys’ attention and at the same instant
Jimmy turned his eyes their way. Jimmy had a winning smile, and now he
used it. The nearer of the two boys smiled back. The other drew away as
though to continue his journey along the street.
“Come on in, fellows, and let me show you some things,” invited Jimmy.
“I’m looking for something to do.”
“We were just--looking,” murmured the nearer youth.
“Sure!” responded Jimmy heartily. “Come on inside and look. You don’t
need to buy anything. Let me show you a tennis racket, maybe, or a
sweater.” He drew back invitingly. There was low-voiced colloquy
and the two followed hesitantly inside. Jimmy reached the back of
the counter by the simple expedient of placing one hand thereon and
vaulting it. That seemed to put the visitors more at their ease, and
one of them laughed and said:
“Say, how much is that tennis racket in the window?”
“That one?” Jimmy reached over the curtain and brought the racket into
view, as he did so reading the tag attached to the handle. “Have a
slant at it,” he invited, handing it to the questioner. “That’s a nice
racket. One of Proctor and Farnham’s. You won’t find another one of
those in this town.” He might have added “or in this store,” but he
refrained.
“Never heard of that make,” said the more reticent boy.
“What?” Jimmy was surprised, but politely so. “One of the best, if not
_the_ best. Ever see Williams play?”
“I have,” assented the first speaker, “but I didn’t notice what sort of
a racket he used.”
“You have a look the next time,” advised Jimmy, wondering just what
racket Williams did wield. “How do you like the feel of that? Corking
balance, eh? That handle gives a nice firm grip, too. I’d like to own
that myself.” This was no more than the truth, although the desire of
possession was but a minute old.
“What did you say the price was?”
“Price? Oh, six-twenty-five. That’s a special price, too. You see, we
have the agency for the P. and F. goods here and we’re selling very
low to introduce them. That racket would sell for seven dollars in New
York, I suppose.”
The boy nodded agreement. “Yes, I dare say it would.” He turned to his
companion. “I like it better than Carty’s,” he said, “don’t you?”
The second youth took the implement and subjected it to a minute and
sustained inspection. Finally he balanced it across a finger. Then
he stepped back and swung it mightily through the air, smashing an
imaginary ball through the doorway. Then he handed it back, and Jimmy
heard plainly the sigh that accompanied the action. The boy nodded
soberly but convincingly. “It’s a corker,” he declared.
The intending purchaser of a racket glowed. It is always satisfying
to have one’s judgment upheld. He swung the racket himself slowly
and looked admiringly at it. At last he laid it on the counter, and
Jimmy’s heart fell. “I like it all right,” said the youth, “but that’s
more than I want--more than I meant to pay for one.”
“That so? Well, you can’t get much of a racket these days for less than
six dollars,” replied Jimmy. “You fellows know what the fancy ones
fetch; eight, nine--more if you want to pay it.” Jimmy fondled the
tightly-stretched strings admiringly. “That racket would last three
hard seasons, I’ll bet, without restringing. You don’t see finer gut
than that very often. I like the way it’s reënforced there, too, don’t
you? That small gut strengthens the racket without making it dead.”
The two boys nodded in unison and in silence. Two pairs of eyes were
following Jimmy’s pointing finger absorbedly. At last: “I can lend
you a dollar,” said the reticent youth in low tones. The other turned
eagerly, then shook his head.
“I oughtn’t to pay more than five,” he said virtuously but sadly.
Jimmy drew a breath of relief. He was, he knew, about to make a sale,
his first sale! He drew a caressing hand along the handle, from the
black-and-gold diamond trade-mark and the word “Runner-Up” to the soft
brown leather band at the end. The tempted one followed the gesture,
thrilling to it. Jimmy looked up and spoke at the psychological moment.
“Are you high school fellows?” he asked.
“No.”
“Because, if you were, I could give you the regular high school
discount of five per cent. That would make it cost you--let me
see--yes, five-ninety-four.”
“We’re Mount Millard fellows,” said one of the boys.
Jimmy pricked up his ears at that. “Mount Millard! Is that so? What
sort of a football team have you got over there this year?”
“Pretty good, I guess. Not so good as last year’s, maybe, but--”
“Hope not!” laughed Jimmy. “You beat us badly last year. How do you
fellows happen to be so far from home?” Mount Millard was at Warren,
and Warren was some eighteen miles from Alton.
“We came over to go to the dentist’s,” the boy explained. “There isn’t
a decent one in Warren.”
“Nor anything else,” mourned his companion.
“Except the school,” said Jimmy smilingly.
“Sure, the school’s all right, but there aren’t any decent stores
there. It’s a hole that way.”
“Where do your crowd buy your athletic supplies, then?”
“Oh, one of the druggists keeps a few things. Generally he sends away
for them.”
“How long did it take you to get over here?” Jimmy asked.
“About twenty-five minutes, I guess. We came in an automobile with a
man who lives there. It takes about forty minutes by the trolley.”
“Uh-huh,” responded Jimmy thoughtfully. “Don’t see why you fellows
can’t do your shopping over here.”
“Well, it isn’t worth while, I guess. We manage to get most everything
we want, one way or another.”
“Rackets like this one?” asked Jimmy, smiling.
The boy shook his head, smiling, too.
“Tell you what I’ll do,” announced Jimmy. “We give a ten per cent
discount to Alton fellows and I don’t see why we shouldn’t give the
same to Mount Millard. You may have that racket for five dollars and
sixty-two cents. All I ask is that you tell fellows where you bought
it and that if they’ll take the trouble to come over here--or send
over, if they like--we’ll treat them white and give them ten per cent
discount from the regular price. What do you say?”
The boy hesitated, but the space of that hesitation was so brief as to
be almost negligible. “I’ll take it!” he said crisply.
When they were gone, hurrying off to their appointment at the nearby
dentist’s, Jimmy smiled proudly as he took out a pen and began to
figure on a piece of wrapping paper. “‘b.j.t.,’” he murmured. “That’s
6, 5, 0. I was only a quarter of a dollar out of the way. All right.
Now, ten per cent off that leaves--let’s see--yes, five-eighty-five.”
He counted the money on the counter: a five dollar bill and sixty-two
cents in change. Then he figured once more. “I owe twenty-three cents,”
he muttered, and found the amount in his pocket and added it to the
sum on the counter. Then he reached beneath for the cigar box and
swept the proceeds into it, with an air of intense satisfaction not at
all marred by the fact that the sale of the tennis racket, because he
had translated the price-tag’s inscription erroneously, had cost him
personally twenty-three cents!
That transaction satisfactorily completed, Jimmy went, whistling, back
to the doorway to again play the rôle of the watchful spider. The tune
he whistled evidently did not please Mr. J. Warren Pulsifer who had
left his cage and was listlessly arranging a bunch of asparagus fern
in the wax-papered bottom of a long card-board box. As he worked he
shot impatient, even indignant glances at the unconcerned Jimmy, who,
not realizing the pain he was inflicting on the florist’s nerves, went
heedlessly and blithely on. It is just possible that, even had he
realized the discomfort his melody was causing, he would have continued
it, for Mr. Pulsifer didn’t stand very high with Jimmy.
Others came and looked into the window, some interestedly, some
carelessly, and all ultimately passed by. The better part of an hour
passed. The sunlight became very warm, and Jimmy looked longingly
across the street toward the screen door of the Blue Front Pharmacy
from behind which came the hiss of carbonated water. Jimmy wanted a
cooling drink very much. But duty held him sternly at his post. If,
he warned himself, he were to cross the street even for a scant three
minutes some one might enter the store in his brief absence and,
finding none to wait on him, go away again. Besides that--and Jimmy
glanced at his watch--Rus Emerson had promised to run over at ten to
see how he was getting on, and it certainly wouldn’t do to be missing
when Rus arrived! Tiring of watching the street, Jimmy went back behind
the counter. There was no chair there, which he thought showed a sad
want of interest, on the part of his employers, in his comfort, but he
found that it was possible to squeeze a scant portion of his anatomy
against the boxes on the lowest shelf and maintain his position there
by bracing his feet against the edge of the counter. He had just got
himself satisfactorily settled when the doorway was darkened and an
anxious voice hailed him above the tramp of hurrying footsteps.
“Where’s the tennis racket?” called Russell anxiously.
Jimmy dropped his feet and came upright very promptly. “Tennis racket?”
he repeated. “_The_ tennis racket? If you mean--”
“I mean the one in the window,” interrupted Russell excitedly. “It’s
gone!”
“Oh, that!” replied Jimmy casually. He brushed an invisible speck from
a sleeve and smiled boredly. “We sold that.”