"This?" Jeff held the pencil up. "It's a Bagstone, the newest thing. I
wouldn't be without one."
"Want to sell it?"
"_Uh-uh._ I have only a couple left and I may need them."
"What's it cost?"
"A dollar."
"License is fifty cents. Can we swap?"
Jeff passed the pencil through the grill, but instead of the expected
fifty cents, the clerk handed him another slip of paper.
"What's this?"
"Peddler's license and you're a peddler. They cost fifty cents, so we're
even."
Jeff, who had thought the clerk a naïve rustic, grinned his appreciation
of someone else who knew how to get what he wanted and started down the
corridor. He was still cheerful; he'd bought a dozen of the pencils for
two dollars, and all except two were sold. It was a good sign, and he
might do a brisk business in Cressman. He hadn't thought so when he came
in because there were many stores, and usually people would not buy from
a peddler if they could get what they wanted at a store. But Jeff felt
lucky.
Coming in, he'd been in too much of a hurry to reach the court house to
pay much attention to the town. Now he had an opportunity to examine it
closely.
Between 2500 and 3000 people, he guessed, lived in Cressman. They were
supported by the railroad yards and by a sawmill whose screeching saw
made a hideous noise on that end of town which Jeff had not yet visited,
and the workers must be well paid because there was every evidence of
prosperity. The wooden sidewalks were well cared for, the dirt streets
were clean, the horses on the streets were good animals that cost a fair
amount of money, and there were a few autos with brass-fronted
radiators.
These were all good signs. The fact that the stores seemed well
patronized was bad, but Jeff wouldn't be able to tell until he had done
some canvassing of his own, and he wanted to do that before getting
breakfast for Pal and himself. Trade ran in cycles. If one Cressmanite
was quarreling with the storekeepers, the chances were good that the
person's friends would be similarly disposed to take an unkind view of
merchants. If there were several such quarrels, Jeff might do a thriving
business.
The young trader took an unobtrusive stand beside a store whose sign
read "JOHN T. ALLEN, GENERAL MERCHANDISE." Beneath that, in smaller
letters was, "The best of everything for everyone at the lowest prices."
Pal sat down as close as he could get and touched Jeff's dangling hand
with a cold nose.
There were few people on the street, but that was to be expected at this
hour. The workers would be working, the housewives taking care of their
houses and the children playing. Jeff's eyes roved down the main street.
He located and filed away in his mind the doctor's office, the dentist,
the stores, the blacksmith shop, the livery stable and other business
establishments. He knew where the sawmill was and he saw two church
steeples. With few exceptions, all the rest would be homes. It was a
good, substantial town, one of many such that Jeff had visited.
He looked with mingled wistfulness and amusement at a boy plodding down
the sidewalk toward him. About eight years old, the youngster wore a
faded shirt, torn pants, and had a dirty face that was lighted by bright
eyes and a grin. He shuffled along, being careful to step only on the
cracks in the sidewalk and kicking at small objects in his path. Then he
saw the dog. His head went up, his grin became a smile, and he hurried
to pause in front of Jeff and Pal.
"Gee!" he breathed. "Is he ever big! What's his name?"
"Pal," Jeff answered. "Do you like big dogs, son?"
"I like all dogs. Does he bite?"
"Gentle as a kitten. Go ahead and pet him."
Pal stood, his head reaching almost to the youngster's shoulders, and
wagged a welcoming tail at the hand stretched toward him. The boy
tickled Pal's ears and smoothed his muzzle.
"Wish he was mine!" he sighed.
"Don't you have a dog?"
"My paw," the boy said mournfully, "won't let me have one. Well, I got
to go down to Skinner's and get Maw some sugar."
"Take this."
Jeff drew a peppermint stick from his pack and extended it. The boy took
it with the same hand he had used to pet Pal and grinned his thanks.
Jeff watched him skip down the street and sighed. He liked everybody,
but he had an especially soft spot in his heart for children. Besides,
it was good business. Should he decide to make a house-to-house canvass,
he had already paved the way in at least one home.
Two women passed, going to the far side of the walk and keeping their
eyes averted when they reached Jeff, and a man came from the opposite
direction. Without seeming to, Jeff studied him.
About thirty, the man was slim and supple. Snapping black eyes and a
pert waxed mustache betrayed his French origin, and from his quick, sure
steps he was a woodsman. He swerved into John T. Allen's store and Jeff
decided that he was a man of short temper. A moment later, that opinion
was borne out.
"_Sacré!_" came an outraged roar. "You are a dog among dogs! A pig among
pigs! You cheat the honest people!"