I went back into our cabin and set to work on a "Vacancy" sign I was
making, to hang up just outside the office door under the neon sign
that said "Office."
We had been thinking of getting a neon "vacancy" sign, but we were
afraid it would be too expensive. One night the "Moonrise Motel" sign
had begun to flicker on and off, so we telephoned Oian Rosco, the only
neon expert within fifty miles. Grant was disgusted at the idea of
having to hire anyone to fix something for him, but neon signs are one
thing--probably about the only thing--he doesn't know how to fix.
While Rosco, a small man with an innocent-looking round face, was
fixing our sign, we asked him how much a neon "vacancy" sign would
cost. He told us he'd figure it out and let us know when he brought
back the parts for our broken sign.
When he returned with the parts, he not only gave us an estimate of the
cost, but brought along a penciled sketch of the sign as he planned it,
in its full size.
It was very attractive, and he could make it for us in a very short
time, but it would cost a little more than we wanted to spend, with
what neighboring motel owners called the "late summer slump" due at
almost any time. We'd think it over, though, we told him.
He left the penciled sketch for us to consider, assuring us, his round
eyes guileless, that he had no use for it.
We decided that, even though we didn't feel that we could afford a neon
sign, we should have a "vacancy" sign of some kind to hang under the
"office" sign. It would catch the eyes of the minority of people who
look toward the office, instead of at the big sign in front of a motel,
to determine whether or not accommodations are available.
"I'll get a board the size of the 'office' sign," Grant, the ever
resourceful, said: "I'll paint it white, and you can put the letters on
carefully with pencil. Then we'll paint the letters black."
"A good idea," I agreed, glancing at the paper Rosco had left, and at
the beautiful, perfect lettering on it.
When Grant put the dry, white-painted board before me a few days later,
I had a battle with my conscience. Should I take a ruler and
painstakingly create my own letters, or should I cut out Rosco's
letters and trace them onto the board?
The latter course seemed the most practical. Still, a stern inner voice
told me, Rosco had put his time and work into that sample sign with the
hope of selling us its counterpart in neon, not so that we might make
use of his labor by tracing his letters and making a sign ourselves,
thereby pushing ourselves still further out of the market for the neon
sign he might have sold us.
I finally decided that the only honorable thing to do would be to start
from scratch. Pushing his sign aside, I set laboriously to work making
new letters. If I cast an occasional glance at the formation of his
lettering as I worked, it was accidental.
I was intently studying the proportions of his "Y" when the office bell
rang. I put aside my work guiltily and hurried to the door.
It was Miss Nesdeburt. She gave me a timid smile.
"My cabin is just lovely," she said, her tiny white hands fluttering up
to her glasses. She took them off, as though she could see me better
without a barrier of glass between us; "it's really lovely," she
continued. "I was wondering if I could borrow a pencil? I'd like to
write some postcards and tell every one I've found a cabin, and I seem
to have forgotten to bring a pen or pencil."
"Certainly. We've got dozens of them," I said lightly. I opened the
cash drawer and put my hand into it.
Then I shrieked and leaped backward. There, in the drawer, sat a huge
black spider!
Then I remembered, and I could feel the color flooding into my face. I
had been taken in by my own trick--and before an audience, too!
"It's just--just an artificial spider, made of rubber. I forgot, for a
minute, that I'd put him in there. I was going to play a little joke on
my husband, you know. But I guess the joke was on me." I produced a
laugh that was meant to be hearty, but which actually was sickly and
aggrieved.
Miss Nestleburt's sparkling blue eyes had never left my face. Her
expression was sad and horrified. "Et tu, Brute?" she asked, with more
pathos than Caesar could possibly have squeezed into the three words.
"What do you mean?" I asked uneasily.
"Why, what kind of a den of practical jokers have I gotten myself
into?" she wanted to know. "First Mr. Hawkins, now you."
"Oh, but I'm not really a practical joker," I assured her hastily. "In
fact, it must have been Mr. Hawkins who left this spider to scare me,
and I just thought as long as I had it anyway I'd scare my husband. I'm
not in the habit of doing things like that. Did Mr. Hawkins scare you
with a spider too?"