THE IRON RING
Cordie's description of James proved quite true. An intriguing figure was
this James; a stalwart man of forty, a straight, square-shouldered
six-footer, with face as brown as a coffee bean. He was unmistakably
American, yet he seemed oddly out of place as, with arms piled high with
bundles, he moved steadily through the crowd. There was a certain
directness, and with all that a slight roll about his walk, that
suggested some sort of sea craft. He was not unlike some port-to-port
steamer, waiting at dock for its load, then steaming away to the port of
discharge.
"A silent man, and one who has been accustomed to command, not to plod,"
was Lucile's mental comment. "He's not accustomed to being called James,
like a chauffeur or a butler. You can see that by the twinkle in the
corner of his eye when someone calls him by that name. I wonder what
could have brought him to the extremity of carrying bundles for twenty
dollars a week. I'm sure he doesn't drink to excess. His face would show
it if he did. Oh well, that's Cordie's little mystery. Let her fathom it
when the opportunity comes."
Cordie's opportunity came a little later, and in a decidedly startling
manner.
In the meantime this was another busy afternoon; one of the busiest of
the season.
"Only listen to them!" Lucile said to Cordie as she waited for a parcel.
"Most of them are women trying to select books for boys and girls. Not
one in ten really knows what she wants or what boys and girls read these
days. Listen--"
Cordie listened as she worked, and this, from a score of pairs of lips,
is what she heard: "Have you got the Alger books?" "Do you keep Peck's
Bad Boy? That's such a splendid story. Don't you think so?" "I want a--a
book for a boy fourteen years old. What can you recommend?" "Have you the
Elsie books? Those are _such_ sweet stories!" "I want a book for a boy
twelve years old. I don't want anything trashy, though. Which of these
fifty-cent books would you recommend?" "Is this a good book?"
"The answer," whispered Lucile with a little giggle, "the answer, if they
say 'Is this a good book?' is always 'Yes.' Always yes, whether you think
so or not. I'll tell you why. Nine times out of ten, when a woman
customer says 'Is this a good book?' she has already made up her mind
that it is a good book. If you say 'Yes' she'll smile and buy it. If you
say 'No,' she'll frown and buy it anyway. So why provoke a frown, and
Christmas only two weeks away?"
Only her untiring good nature and her native sense of humor, kept Lucile
on her feet and going. There were times, however, when even these
deserted her. One of those unfortunate moments arrived this very
afternoon. A particularly unpleasant customer had said to her: "I want a
book about a boy who was brought up by the monks." After suggesting
everything that seemed akin to this, she happened upon "Tarzan." "Oh
yes!" exclaimed the customer, "That's it. Tarzan."
A second customer wanted "Laddie." When the modern "Laddie" was produced,
the customer insisted that this was not the original "Laddie," but a
cheap substitute; that the first "Laddie" was written years ago by a
person who's name she did not recall, but who had written another book
called something else. She had insisted on Lucile's asking everyone in
the section about it and, after leaving very warm and unhappy, reappeared
ten minutes later with another clerk, still looking for the original
"Laddie."
In the midst of all this Lucile came upon a fidgeting customer whose
fingers were constantly plaiting stray locks of hair and whose lips were
saying: "I must make a train. I really must. Do you think you could get
them to hurry. Do you? Do you really? That would be so nice of you!"
After hurrying the sale through and getting many a sharp look for
stepping in ahead of her turn, Lucile had the pleasure of seeing the
customer meet a friend an aisle over and pause for a prolonged spell of
gossip.
"Who could believe that they could be such children?" she murmured. "No,
we haven't the Broncho Buster Boys," she turned to answer a query.
"That's a fifty-cent series which we do not carry." The person who asked
the question was a rather pompous lady in kid gloves.
"Have you the Broncho Buster Boys?"
She caught the words spoken behind her back. The customer, ignoring her
decided negative, had deliberately turned about and asked the same
question of a girl who had come on the floor that morning and knew
nothing about the stock.
"I told her," Lucile said in as steady a tone as she could command, "that
we do not carry them."
Instantly the customer flew into a towering rage. Her words, though quite
proper on the lips of a society lady, were the sort that cut to the very
soul.
A sharp retort came to Lucile's lips and she said it.
She was in the midst of it when a hand touched her shoulder and a steady
voice said:
"Here! Here! What's this?"
The words, while not said in an unkindly tone, had a ring of authority to
them. Wheeling about, Lucile found herself facing a beautiful lady, one
of the most beautiful she had ever seen; black hair, full cheeks of
wonderful color, and eyes of the deepest blue. Lucile took in all the
beauty of her for the first time at a glance, and at the same moment cold
terror struck to her heart. This was Miss Bruce, the head of the section,
the one who could dismiss a salesgirl at a word. And she had just heard
Lucile break the most rigid rule of the house! She had talked back to a
customer!
White faced, staring, endeavoring to speak but uttering no sound, Lucile
stood there as if frozen to the spot.
"There, there, dearie! I know how it is. Don't do it again, that's all."
Lucile felt a friendly pressure on her arm, then the great lady of the
section was gone.
In spite of her bravest efforts, tears rushed to Lucile's eyes. One
splashed down on either cheek before she could check them. Were they
tears of vexation or gratitude, or merely tired tears? Who could say?
Through the tears Lucile dimly saw a face. It was an electrifying vision,
and dashing away the tears, she became at once her own, keen, better
self.
"Yes, yes, it is! It's the Mystery Lady," she assured herself.
"She's--she's talking to Cordie. I must----"
As she started toward the wrapping stand where stood the Mystery Lady, a
voice at her elbow said:
"Will you sell me this? Could you have them hurry a little? I must make a
train. I really must." It was the harried and hurried lady of a half hour
previous. She had found another book and was making another train.
With great reluctance and much pent-up anger, Lucile waited upon her; and
in the meantime, as was her wont, the Mystery Lady, the lady of the
crimson thread, had vanished.
"Who--who was the tall lady you were speaking to a moment ago?" she
breathlessly asked Cordie a moment later.
"How should I know? She asked me for a string to tie a package. Lots of
them ask for string, or a piece of corrugated paper, or a card to write a
greeting on."
"Was that all?"
"That was about all."
"Look!" exclaimed Lucile. "Who put that there?"
She was pointing to a loose end of wrapping paper through which had been
drawn and neatly tied a bit of crimson thread with a single purple
strand.
"Search me," smiled Cordie. "How should I know?"
While Lucile was disengaging the thread and thrusting it in her pocket,
Cordie was searching the top of her desk.
"That's funny," she said at last. "It was here a moment ago. Now it's
gone."
"What?"
"My iron ring."
"The one you cut cord with?"
"I'm supposed to use it for that," Cordie tossed her head. "The thing
cuts my finger. All the same, I ought to have it. You're supposed to turn
such things in when they lay you off. But if it's gone, it's gone."
Shrugging her shoulders, she promptly forgot it. So did Lucile, but the
time came when she was reminded of the loss in a most forceful manner.
"I wonder," she whispered as she moved away, "I do wonder what she does
that for. This is the third time. It's the strangest thing I ever heard
of." She fingered the crimson thread.
The melting away of great stocks of the year's most popular book for
young people, "Blue Flames," was most amazing. A fresh truck load, three
or four hundred copies, had come down that very morning. By mid-afternoon
they were two-thirds gone.
For a time, as she watched, Lucile's astonishment grew; then it began to
ebb. She was learning the secret of it. Laurie Seymour hovered over the
pile constantly. Hardly a customer left him without purchasing one or
more copies. Apparently well informed regarding the contents of the book,
he told still more regarding the personality of the author and how he had
gone about the task of gathering the material. All of the local color of
the book was penned with minute exactness; the characters were true to
life; their actions, while not pedantic, were such as would lead girls
and boys to higher thinking and unselfish living. More than that, the
story contained precisely the elements which young people of to-day
demand. Action, adventure, suspense, mystery--all were here in proper and
generous proportions. Thus he would describe the book.
"Yes," he would assure the prospective purchaser, "it's this year's
publication; not six weeks off the press and it sells for a dollar. How
is that possible? That it might have a large sale the author cut his
royalty to one-third, and the publishers cut their profits accordingly.
The book compares favorably with many a book selling for nearly twice the
price."
What customer could refuse such a book? Few did. Even more important than
this was the fact that the other salespeople, especially those who were
new and had little knowledge of the stock but who were zealous for quick
sales, listened to his lucid story of the book, and having learned it by
heart, joined in selling it. There were times when clerks fluttered as
thickly about that pile of books as sparrows around a crust of bread.
"Who is Laurie Seymour; why is he so greatly interested in that
particular book, and how does he come to know so much about it?" Having
put these questions to herself, Lucile went about the task of asking
others about him. She asked Rennie and Donnie, the inseparable two who
had worked in that corner so long. She searched out Tommie, the young man
of twenty who knew all about boys' books. She asked Morrison, of the fine
bindings section, and even Emmy, the veteran inspector. All shook their
heads. They had come down one morning, and there he was selling books.
That had been two weeks previous. Someone had pulled some wires and here
he was. By-and-by the rush would be over, then out he would go. That was
the way things were done at Christmas time. It wasn't worth while to care
too much!
But Lucile did care. Her curiosity had been aroused. She wanted to know
more about Laurie Seymour.
Her curiosity was given a trace of satisfaction that very evening. At
least she found out who knew about Laurie. Yes, she found out, but
then----
She had come hurrying round a pillar when she all but ran into Laurie. He
had been talking in low tones and laughing in notes quite as low. To her
great surprise she saw that the person he was talking to was none other
than the perfectly beautiful Miss Bruce, the head of the section.
"And to think," Lucile said to herself, "he actually appeared to be
joking her about something! And he a sales-person! Ah well, our chief is
a star--would have been a star on any stage, and a star has a right to be
friendly with any member of the cast."
"Well," she smiled to herself, "I know now who could tell me all about
Laurie Seymour; but I'd never dare ask. Never! I'll have to find out some
other way."
One impression coming from this incident bore down heavily upon her.
Laurie Seymour was a young man with a past broader than the four walls of
the juvenile book section. Just what that past might have been, she could
not guess.
"Perhaps," she told herself, "he is some artist getting pictures from
life; or an actor gathering local color for a play, or--"
"Is your table in order?" It was Rennie who broke in upon her
meditations.
It wasn't, so she hurried away to forget, for the time being, Laurie
Seymour and her perplexing problems.