"WITH CONTENTS, IF ANY"
In the meantime Florence had come upon an adventure. The place she
entered a half hour after quitting time was a great barn-like room where
dark shadows lurked in every corner but one. The huge stacks of bags and
trunks that loomed up indistinctly in those dark corners made the place
seem the baggage room of some terminal railway depot.
As she joined the throng in the one light corner of the room she was
treated to another little thrill. Such a motley throng as it was. Jewish
second-hand dealers, short ones, tall ones, long-bearded ones; men of all
races. And there were two or three women, and not a few vagabonds of the
street, who had come in for no other purpose than to get out of the cold.
Such were those who crowded round the high stand where, with gavel in
hand, the auctioneer cried the sale:
"How much am I bid? Ten dollars! Thank you. Ten I have. Who'll make it
eleven! 'Leven, 'leven, 'leven. Who'll make it twelve?"
There was not an attractive face in the group that surrounded the block.
Florence was tempted to run away; but recalling the surprise she had
promised herself, she stayed.
Presently her eyes fell upon a face that attracted her, the kindly,
gentle face of a woman in her thirties. She was seated at a desk,
writing.
"She's the clerk of the sale," Florence thought. "They're selling trunks
now. She may be able to tell me when they will sell bags."
She moved over close to the desk and timidly put her question.
"Do you really want one of those bags?" the woman asked, surprise showing
in her tone.
"Yes. Why not?" the girl asked.
"No reason at all, I guess," said the clerk. Then, after looking at
Florence for a moment, a comradely smile spread over her face.
"Come up close," she beckoned. "He'll be selling bags in fifteen minutes
or so," she whispered. "Sit down here and wait. Why do you want one of
those bags so badly?"
"I--I need one," said Florence.
"That's not all the reason."
"No--not--not all," Florence hesitated, then told her frankly of the
surprise she had planned for herself.
The woman's face became almost motherly as she finished.
"I'll tell you what to do," she whispered. "There are just five bags to
be sold in the next lot. You won't want the first one. She--the woman who
owned it, died."
"Oh, no," Florence whispered.
"You won't get the second nor the third. That long bearded Jew, and the
slim, dark man standing by the post, will run them high if they have to.
They know something about them."
"How--how--"
"How did they find out? I don't know, but they did. The last two bags are
quite good ones, good as you would purchase new for fifteen or twenty
dollars, and I shouldn't wonder," she winked an eye ever so slightly, "I
shouldn't wonder a bit if there'd be a real surprise in one of them for
you. There now, dearie," she smiled, "run over and look at them, over
there beside the green trunk. And don't whisper a word of what I have
told you.
"The one nearest the block will be sold first, and the others just as
they come," she added as the girl rose to go.
Making her way around the outskirts of the crowd, Florence walked over to
the place of the green trunk. The bags were all good, and most of them
nearly new. Any one of them, she concluded, would see her safely through
college, and that was all that mattered. Then, lest she attract too much
attention, she slunk away into a dark corner.
Her heart skipped a beat when the first bag was put up. Her hopes fell
when she saw it sell for thirty-two dollars. Her little roll of fifteen
dollars seemed to grow exceedingly small as she clutched it in her right
hand. Was her dream of a surprise for Christmas morning only a dream? It
would seem so, for the second and third bags also sold for a high figure.
But, recalling the little lady's advice, she kept up her courage.
"How much am I bid?" said the auctioneer as the fourth bag was handed
him. Florence caught her breath. She tried to say "Ten dollars," but her
tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. A round faced man relieved her of
the task. The bag went to eleven dollars, then twelve. Then it came to a
halt, giving time for Florence to regain her voice.
"Twelve and a half," her voice seemed piping and thin in that great
place. But the auctioneer got it.
"Thank you. Twelve and a half, a half, a half."
"Thirteen! Thank you. Thirteen I have. Now the half," he nodded to
Florence and she nodded back, "And a half, I have it. And a half. Now
fourteen. Thirteen and a half. Now make it fourteen."
"Fourteen," someone shouted. Again the girl's heart sank. What was the
use?
"And a half?" The auctioneer nodded at her and she nodded back.
"Now fifteen. Now fifteen. Now fifteen," he shouted hoarsely. "Who'll
make it fifteen? Fifteen once. Fifteen twice!" Florence crushed her money
into a solid mass, "Fifteen three times, and SOLD to the young lady in
blue!" His gavel came down with a bang.
Scarcely believing her senses, the girl groped her way forward to receive
the bag, then hurried over to the desk.
"You got it?" smiled the clerk. "Here's hoping it's a beautiful,
wonderful surprise!" she whispered as she pressed a lonely half dollar
into the palm of her hand.
Curiosity regarding the price that would be bid for the last bag of the
lot held Florence to the spot for the space of three minutes. And that
was a bit of curiosity which she was destined to regret.
As she stood there listening to the bids she could not help but notice a
dark man, with burning, hawk-like eyes hurry into the place, glance
frantically about, race back to the place where the five bags had been,
then stand stock still. His dark eyes roved about the place until they
came to rest on one spot and that spot was the one occupied by the bag
which Florence held in her hand. From that time until she left the room,
although he pretended to be looking at everything else, she was sure his
eyes did not leave that bag for a space of more than five seconds at any
one time. The cold glitter of his eyes made her feel strangely weak at
the knees.
She had not gone twenty rods from the place when she heard footsteps
behind her. Looking back, she saw that same small dark man coming behind
her.
"Just happened to come out then," she tried to reassure herself. But it
was no use. Something within her told her that she was being followed,
followed on the deserted city streets at night.
At once a mad procession of questions began racing through her mind. Who
was this man? Was it the bag he wanted? Why? What did he know about the
bag? What did it really contain? To none of these questions could she
form an adequate answer. Only one thing stood out clearly in her
mind--the bag was hers. She had come by it in an honest manner. The hotel
had a right to give it to the auctioneer to sell. She had a right to
purchase it. She had paid for it. She had the bill of sale. It was
rightfully hers.
But even as these thoughts crystallized in her mind she realized that she
was desperately afraid. The man with his burning black eyes was enough to
inspire fear, and added to that it was night.
"What am I to do?" she asked herself. "The elevated station is only two
blocks ahead, but he will board the train I take. He will follow me after
I get off and there are five desolate blocks to travel to my room."
Suddenly a solution came to her. Just before her was the entrance to the
LaSalle Street Railway Station. Why not walk in there and leave the bag
at the checking room? She could return for it in the morning and carry it
to the store where she could check it again and leave it until closing
time.
No sooner thought than done. Five minutes later, looking neither to right
nor left, she walked demurely out of the station. She did not know what
had become of her pursuer, and she did not care. The bag was safe. He
could not get it, and aside from that, what did he care for her, an
elevator girl going home from work? Very evidently he cared nothing at
all, for she did not see him again that night.
"Fooled him," she smiled to herself as she settled herself comfortably in
a seat where she might watch the winter whitened city speed past her.
"That's the last I'll ever see of him."
In coming to this conclusion she overlooked one trifling detail. Since
the night was cold, she had worn beneath her coat her elevator girl's
uniform. The auction room was warm. While there she had unbuttoned her
coat, displaying plainly the uniform and the monogrammed buttons on it.
The greatest of stores employ few enough elevator girls. To visit each
bank of elevators and to get a look at each girl is but the work of an
hour or two at most. The man would have no trouble in locating her if he
cared to do so. Since she had not thought of this she rode home humming
in a carefree manner and, after a meal of sandwiches, cocoa and pie,
followed by an hour of reading, she went to bed to dream of mysterious
treasures taken by the truck load from the depths of a heavy, dark brown
travelling bag.
She awoke in the morning with a pleasing sense of mystery and
anticipation lurking about in the shadowy corners of her brain.
Leaping from bed, she went through a series of wild calesthenics which
set every ounce of blood in her veins racing away with new life.
An hour later, with a little suppressed feeling of excitement tugging at
her heart and with fingers that trembled slightly, she passed her check
over the counter at the depot. She had some slight feeling that it had
all been a dream. But no, there it was, her mysterious bag, as big and
handsome as ever. It was quite light, but she felt sure it was not empty.
What could it contain? She was tempted to draw the key from her pocket
then and there and have a peek. But no--to-morrow was Christmas. She
could wait. So, seizing the bag, she hurried away to her work.
Once the bag was checked at the store and she back at her lever in the
cage that went up and down, up and down all day, she found herself
thinking of that other girl, the mysterious double of hers. Where was she
to-day? Had she really gone to work, or had she vanished? What manner of
plot had she been mixed up in? What train had gone at eleven-thirty?
Whose train? Was that girl supposed to go? If so, why did she not wish to
go? Where did she live? Who was she anyway?
While the elevator went up and down, up and down, these questions, and a
score of others, kept revolving themselves in her mind. At last she found
herself forming a firm resolve that should she happen upon her mysterious
double again she most certainly would keep in touch with her until she
found out more about her.
She saw her mysterious double shortly after she had gone to work, but
under conditions which gave her no opportunity to either study or
question her. The girl, dressed in her uniform and apparently ready to go
to work, was standing before the bank of elevators on the thirteenth
floor. She had been talking in low and excited tones to a tall, square
shouldered man who, in spite of the fact that he was on a floor of this
great store where only employees are allowed, had in his bearing and walk
something that spoke strongly of boats and the sea.
"He's been a captain or a mate or something," Florence said to herself as
she sent her cage speeding downward. "I wonder if that girl belongs to
the sea."