The next evening Jim Wilkins, landlord of the Kilo House and proprietor
of the Kilo Livery, Feed and Sale Stable, was sitting in front of his
hotel, with his chair tipped back against the wall, trading bits of
indolent gossip with Pap Briggs, when Eliph' Hewlitt drove his horse
Irontail down Main Street, and pulled up before the hotel. Pap Briggs
had not swallowed his store teeth; he had not even worn them to bed, and
Miss Sally found them on top of the pump in the back yard, where Pap had
doubtless put them when he went to pump himself a drink. He often lost
them, as he wore them more for ornament than for use, and commonly
removed them when he wished to talk, eat, or laugh. It was Sally who
made him buy them, and he wore them more for her sake than for any
other reason, and he was always uncomfortable with them, for they were
a plain, unmistakable misfit, and felt, as he said, “like I got my
mouth full o' tenpenny nails.” When out of Sally's sight he avoided
this feeling by carrying them in his hand, hidden in his red bandana
handkerchief. About town he used to show them with a great deal of
pride, and openly boasted of their cost and beauty. On Sunday he wore
them all day.
Whenever Eliph' Hewlitt drove into a town he looked about with a seeing
eye, for he had learned to judge the capacity of a place for Jarby's
Encyclopedia by the appearance of the town, but as he drove into Kilo
he was more than usually interested. If this was the home of Miss Sally
Briggs, it followed that when he had completed his courtship, and had
won her affections and held them, it would be his home, also, and he was
curious to see whether it was a town he would like or not like. He liked
it. It was a real American town, and it looked like a good business
town, because there could be no possible reason for people building a
town on that particular situation unless it was for business.
The town was built on a flat space, and the country was flat on all
sides of it. It was on no river, brook, or creek. It was as unbeautiful
in location as it was in architecture. It was just a homely, common,
busy little Iowa village, and even so late in the evening it was as hot
as Sahara; but Eliph' Hewlitt knew it at once for a good town, for
the street was knee deep in dust, which meant much trade, and the four
buildings at the corners of Main and Cross Streets were of brick, which
meant profitable business. There were a couple of other brick buildings
on Main Street, and one or two with “tin” fronts, and of the other
business places only one or two were so ramshackle that they looked
as if their firmer neighbors were holding them up, letting the weaker
structures lean against them as a strong man might support an invalid.
Eliph' Hewlitt liked the town; it was just his idea of what a town
should be, not much as to style, but business-like. There were two full
blocks of Main Street devoted to business, and nearly half a block of
Cross Street was given over to the same purpose, and the dwellings were
well scattered over the surrounding level tract. Three or four of the
dwellings “out Main Street” had conspicuous lawns that had felt the
blades of a lawn mower, but most of the yards were merely grass, with
flower beds filled with the more hardy kinds of flowers, such as would
grow tall and show over the top of the surrounding grass. The plank
walks, which on Main and Cross Streets were made of boards laid
crossways, tapered down into narrow walks with the boards--two of
them--laid lengthways very soon after the stores were passed, and a
little farther out became dirt paths along the fences, and beyond that
pedestrians were supposed to walk on the road. But most of the houses
were painted, either freshly, or at least not anciently.
The corner of Main and Cross Streets, the business center of Kilo, was
like the business centers of other small country towns. A long hitching
rail extended at the side of the street before the buildings on each
corner, and the dirt beneath was worn away by the scraping of the feet
of the many horses that had been tied to the rails. Just below the
corner, on Cross Street, were other holes worn by tossing horseshoes at
pegs, which, if America was composed of small towns only, would be our
national game.
It was a good little town, and Eliph' Hewlitt was pleased.
On one of the corners of Main Street stood the Kilo Hotel, and before it
Eliph' checked the slow gait of Irontail.
Jim Wilkins, the landlord, tipped his chair forward, and got out of it
with a grunt of laziness.
“Hotel running?” asked Eliph' Hewlitt briskly.
“You might call it runnin' if you wasn't dictionary--particular what you
called it,” said the landlord. “If you had to keep it you'd more likely
say it was tryin' to learn to walk. But it's open for business. Want
your rig put up?”
“Yes,” admitted Eliph'. “I've had my supper.”
“That's all right,” said the landlord cheerfully. “I'm sort of glad of
it; save the old lady gittin' up a meal. I was just tellin' Pap Briggs
here that I figgered Kilo had the hottest mean summer temperature, and
the meanest hot summer temperature on earth, and it's hotter over a
kitchen stove than anywheres else. We generally have cold suppers in
this here hotel, unless some guest happens in. Hey, S. Potts! Come here
and git this feller's horse!”
The livery stable was convenient, just around the corner on Cross
Street, and S. Potts came lankly and lazily around the corner. He stood
and looked at Irontail a minute critically, and then felt the horse's
hocks and shook his head at the result of his investigation. Then he
opened Irontail's mouth and looked at his teeth.
“Well, I'll be hanged!” he said, and he called around the corner, “Hey,
Daniel!” and from the livery stable came a very old man.
“Look at this,” said S. Potts, opening Irontail's mouth again, and
Daniel looked and shook his head, as S. Potts had done.
“And feel this,” said S. Potts, putting his hand on Irontail's hock
again. Daniel felt as he was told, and again shook his head.
“Now, what do you make of that?” asked S. Potts triumphantly.
“I dunno what to make of it, S. Potts,” said the old man, shaking his
head. “What do you make of it?”
The landlord broke in upon the conversation with sudden energy.
“Look here,” he said, “you git that horse around to the stable, and shut
up,” and S. Potts and Daniel hastily clambered into the buggy and drove
around the corner.
“I wonder if anything's the matter with my horse?” said Eliph'.
“Matter?” laughed Jim Wilkins. “That's just S. Potts tryin' to show off
before strangers, like he always does. He don't mean no harm, but he
can't be satisfied to just come around and git a horse and lead it to
the stable. He's got to draw attention to hisself or he ain't happy.
He's harmless, but he's just naturally one of the know-it-all-kind, and
he's got to show off.”
There is no man in a small town who can give such a satisfying and
official welcome to a stranger as that given by the liveryman, and
when the landlord of the hotel and the owner of the livery stable are
combined in one man he is better than a reception committee composed of
the mayor and the leading citizens. He is glad to see the stranger, and
he lets him know it. He has a gruff, hearty, and not too servile manner,
and a way of speaking of the men of the town and the farmers of the
surrounding country as if he owned them. Having bought horses of many of
them, he knows their bad traits, and he has an air of knowing much more
than he would willingly tell regarding them. He is not inquisitive
about the stranger's business, and is willing to give him information.
Probably it is his trade of buying and selling and renting horses that
gives him such a flavor of his own, for he knows that the horses he
lets out on livery are often as intelligent as the men who hire them.
He comes as near the chivalric model of the old Southern planter as a
Northern business man can, but his slaves are horses, and his overseer
the hostler. He is a man in authority, even though is authority is over
horses.
Modern civilization has few finer sights and sounds than the liveryman
when he is asked if he has a horse he can let out for a ten-mile drive
into the country. He looks at the supplicant doubtfully; “Well, I
dunno,” he says, “where was it you wanted to drive to?” He receives the
answer with a non-committal air. “That's nearer fourteen mile than ten,”
he says and then turns to the hostler. “Say, Potts, Billy's out, ain't
he?” Potts growls out the answer, “Doc Weaver's got him out. Won't be
back till seven.” The liveryman pulls slowly at his cigar, and runs his
hand over his hair. “How's the bay mare's hoof today?” he asks. Potts
shakes his head. “That's right,” says the liveryman, “it don't do to
take no chances with a hoof like that. And we haven't got a thing else
in the barn except that black horse, have we, Potts?” “Everything else
out,” says Potts. The liveryman walks away a few steps, and then turns
suddenly. “Hitch up the black, Potts,” he says, with an air of sudden
recklessness. “Put him in that light, side-bar buggy of Doc Weaver's.
Want a hitching strap? Put in a hitching strap, Potts. AND that new
whip.”
The result is that you get the horse and buggy the liveryman intended
you to have from the minute he saw you coming toward him down the
street, but you get it with a fine touch of style that is worth much in
this dollar and cent world. Potts drives the rig around to where you
are standing, and the liveryman sends Potts back to get a clean laprobe
instead of the one that is in the buggy. He pats the horse on the neck
as you climb in, and as you pick up the reins he says, as if conferring
a parting favor that money could not repay, “Keep a fair tight rein on
him; it's the first time he has been out of the stable to-day.”
Eliph' Hewlitt, in his travels, had learned the value of the liveryman.
He used him as friend and directory. None else could tell him so well
where the prosperous farmers lived, nor who was most likely to fall a
victim to Jarby's Encyclopedia in the town itself. From the liveryman
he could learn which minister, if there were more than one, would be the
best to have head his list of subscribers, which lady was head of the
Society, and what society she was head of. He took one of the chairs
that were ranged along the side of the hotel, and laid his sample across
his knees. He chose the chair that was next to Pap Briggs, for he was
ready to become acquainted with the man he intended soon to have for a
father-in-law.
“Nice town you got here,” he said.
“She's purty good,” agreed Pap, “except for taxes. Taxes is eternal
high, and it's all us propputy owners can do to keep 'em from goin'
clean out o' sight. City council don't seem to care a dumb how high they
git. I wish't I'd stayed on my farm.”
“Taxes ain't so high here as what they are in Jefferson, Pap,” suggested
the landlord. “If you lived down there they'd make you holler, all
right.”
“Well, Jim,” said Pap, “they ain't much choice. If these here young
fellers git their way taxes will go right up. What do they want to
decorate this here town all up for, anyhow? What you think young Toole
was sayin' to me to-day? He was sayin' it was a disgrace to Kilo to have
the public square rented out an' a crop o' buckwheat growin' in it. He
says we ought to plant it in grass an' stick a fountain in the middle.
But that's the way she goes; anything to raise up the taxes. All I says
to him was, 'All right, who'll pump water to make the fountain squirt?
Suppose the taxpayers 'll take turns, hey?'”
“Well,” said the landlord, “I ain't in favor of a fountain, myself. I
reckon a nice piece of statuary would look better, so long as we ain't
got water works to make the fountain fount out water. But it don't look
right to have a public square rented out to grow buckwheat in. It ain't
city-like.”
“It brings in seven dollars a year to the town,” said Pap, “an' that's
better than payin' out good money for statuary. I'm agin high taxes
every time. It costs too much to live, anyhow, especially when you've
got a daughter to support, and no money comin' in, to speak of. And just
when some does come in, along comes a pesky book agent or somethin'
and fools the women out of the money. They ought to be a law agin book
agent. City council ought to put a license on 'em, and keep 'em out of
town.”
“Some towns,” he said softly, “do have licenses against book agents.
One of the relics of the dark ages, but abolished wherever the light
o' culture is loved and esteemed. What so helpful as the book? What so
comforting? What so uplifting? And who but the book agent carries help
and comfort and uplift, and leaves it scattered around, one dollar down
and one dollar a month until paid; who but the humble but useful book
agent? To mention but one book, Jarby's Encyclopedia of Knowledge and
Compendium of Literature, Science and Art has carried wisdom into a
million homes, making each better and brighter. It is a book that makes
the toil of the day easy, by giving one thousand and one hints and
helps, and that sweetens rest after toil, by quotations from all the
world's great authors. In this one book----”
Pap Briggs had put his hands on the arm of his chair, preparing to run
away, but the landlord leaned forward and looked in Eliph' Hewlitt's
face.
“Say,” he said, “is your name Mills?”
“Hewlitt,” said the book agent, “Eliph' Hewlitt.”
He turned to the landlord and looked him fairly in the face, and as
he looked the air of suspicion that had suddenly shone in his eyes
vanished.
“Jim Wilkins!” he exclaimed. “Isn't it Jim Wilkins?”
“Ain't it!” cried the landlord. “Well, I should say it is! And to think,
you little, sawed-off propagator of human knowledge didn't recognize
your old side pardner in the field of sellin' improvin' and
intellectooal works of genius! Don't say you don't remember the 'Wage of
Sin,' Sammy! Don't say you don't remember Kitty!”
“Kitty?” asked Eliph' doubtfully.
“Well, if the little red-head ain't forgot Kitty!” exclaimed Wilkins.
“Why, I MARRIED Kitty, Sammy. For an actual, truthful fact I did. And to
think I should run across Sammy Mills after all these years.”
“Hewlitt,” said Eliph'. “Eliph' Hewlitt is that name I'm known by.”
“And to think you stuck by that name all these years!” said Wilkins.
“And still sellin' works of literatoor, are you? Pap, this is my old
boyhood's chum come meanderin' backwards out of the past. And still
sellin' books! Well, I don't want to discourage your ambitiousness, but
I guess you've struck Kilo about the worst time in the century. Ever
hear of a literary writer called Sir Walter Scott? Well, sir, Kilo is
chuck full of Sir Walter; full as a goat. She ain't begun to near git
through with Sir Walter yet, and I don't figger she'll take in no more
libraries just now. Sir Walter hit her pretty hard.”
“Ten volumes, fifteen dollars cloth, twenty dollars half morocco?”
inquired Eliph' Hewlitt.
“The identical same,” said the landlord. “I purchased a group of Sir
Walters in red leather myself. So did everybody in Kilo; at least I
ain't found anybody that's been missed yet. Paper here got some.”
“My daughter Sally----” began the old man.
“Same thing,” said Wilkins; “you pay just the same if you bought the
books. Why, Sammy, there's enough Sir Walter right here in Kilo now to
start up a book business. Kilo's light on literatoor generally, but when
she goes in, she goes in heavy. There ain't many towns where you'll find
every livin' soul ready to swaller down fifteen dollars worth of Sir
Walter Scott, two dollars down and one dollar a month until paid; but
I calculate them ten volumes will last Kilo quite a spell, and if worst
comes to worst she won't buy no more literatoor till she gits paid up on
Sir Walter. I figger from my own sense of feelin's that about the worst
time to sell a feller books is when he is still payin' once a month on
the old lot. About the second time the collector drops in to collect on
a set of works of literatoor, a man feels like he had been foolish, but
he grins cheerful, and pays up, but if another man drops in about then
to sell another set of the world's great masterpieces it is pretty near
an insult to human intelligence.”
Eliph' Hewlitt drew his hand across his whiskers and coughed gently.
“They told me in Jefferson,” he said softly, “that Kilo was the most
intellectual town in central Iowa.”
“Everybody says the same,” said Wilkins with a touch of pride. “The Sir
Walter Scott man said it, and I guess it's so. But there's other things
besides books. Kilo may be strong and willin' on books, but she's strong
other ways, too, and just now she is lookin' at another kind of horse,
and that's why I say you've miscalculated your comin'. If I was you I'd
go elsewhere and come back later. Kilo has got more books now than she
can handle without straining something, and just now her mind's off on
another tack. We struck a big missionary revival here last week, and
you can bet a wager that every dollar that goes out of Kilo these days,
except what goes for dues on Sir Walter, is goin' for the brethren. The
women folks is havin' a sale this very evenin' to raise cash to help the
heathen.”
Eliph' Hewlitt arose from his chair and tucked the oilcloth-covered
parcel that had been lying on his knees under his left arm. He was a
small man, and his movements were apt to be short and jerky.
“Missionary sale?” he said briskly. “I guess I'll go around and look
in on it. Strangers welcome, I suppose? I'm rather fond of missionary
sales, and I think the world and all of the heathen. Think the ladies
would like to see a stranger?”
Wilkins grinned.
“Pap,” he said, “what you think? Think they'll fall on his neck if he
has any money? From what I have experienced of them sales I figger to
calculate that anybody that is anxious to buy gingham aprons an' sofa
pillows is sure to be took by the hand and given a front seat. I'd go
around with you, but I've got my taxes to pay, like Pap here, and
I don't actually need any pink tidies. It ain't far; just up to Doc
Weaver's; two blocks up, and you can't miss the house. It's the yeller
mansion, this side the road, an' the gate's off the hinges and laid up
alongside the fence. But I guess if them's your samples in that there
package, you might as well leave them here.”
But Eliph' Hewlitt did not leave them there; he tucked them under his
arm, and hurried away with brisk little steps.