CHAPTER VI THE IRON RING
Cordie's description of James proved quite true. An intriguing figure wasthis James; a stalwart man of forty, a straight, square-shoulderedsix-footer, with face as brown as a coffee bean. He was unmistakablyAmerican, yet he seemed oddly out of place as, with arms piled high withbundles, he moved steadily through the crowd. There was a certaindirectness, and with all that a slight roll about his walk, thatsuggested some sort of sea craft. He was not unlike some port-to-portsteamer, waiting at dock for its load, then steaming away to the port ofdischarge.
"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 thecorner of his eye when someone calls him by that name. I wonder whatcould have brought him to the extremity of carrying bundles for twentydollars a week. I'm sure he doesn't drink to excess. His face would showit if he did. Oh well, that's Cordie's little mystery. Let her fathom itwhen the opportunity comes."
Cordie's opportunity came a little later, and in a decidedly startlingmanner.
In the meantime this was another busy afternoon; one of the busiest ofthe 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. Notone in ten really knows what she wants or what boys and girls read thesedays. 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'sBad Boy? That's such a splendid story. Don't you think so?" "I want a--abook for a boy fourteen years old. What can you recommend?" "Have you theElsie books? Those are _such_ sweet stories!" "I want a book for a boytwelve years old. I don't want anything trashy, though. Which of thesefifty-cent books would you recommend?" "Is this a good book?"
"The answer," whispered Lucile with a little giggle, "the answer, if theysay 'Is this a good book?' is always 'Yes.' Always yes, whether you thinkso or not. I'll tell you why. Nine times out of ten, when a womancustomer says 'Is this a good book?' she has already made up her mindthat it is a good book. If you say 'Yes' she'll smile and buy it. If yousay 'No,' she'll frown and buy it anyway. So why provoke a frown, andChristmas only two weeks away?"
Only her untiring good nature and her native sense of humor, kept Lucileon her feet and going. There were times, however, when even thesedeserted her. One of those unfortunate moments arrived this veryafternoon. A particularly unpleasant customer had said to her: "I want abook about a boy who was brought up by the monks." After suggestingeverything that seemed akin to this, she happened upon "Tarzan." "Ohyes!" 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 acheap substitute; that the first "Laddie" was written years ago by aperson who's name she did not recall, but who had written another bookcalled something else. She had insisted on Lucile's asking everyone inthe section about it and, after leaving very warm and unhappy, reappearedten minutes later with another clerk, still looking for the original"Laddie."
In the midst of all this Lucile came upon a fidgeting customer whosefingers were constantly plaiting stray locks of hair and whose lips weresaying: "I must make a train. I really must. Do you think you could getthem 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 forstepping in ahead of her turn, Lucile had the pleasure of seeing thecustomer meet a friend an aisle over and pause for a prolonged spell ofgossip.
"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 askedthe 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 herdecided negative, had deliberately turned about and asked the samequestion of a girl who had come on the floor that morning and knewnothing about the stock.
"I told her," Lucile said in as steady a tone as she could command, "thatwe do not carry them."
Instantly the customer flew into a towering rage. Her words, though quiteproper on the lips of a society lady, were the sort that cut to the verysoul.
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 steadyvoice said:
"Here! Here! What's this?"
The words, while not said in an unkindly tone, had a ring of authority tothem. Wheeling about, Lucile found herself facing a beautiful lady, oneof the most beautiful she had ever seen; black hair, full cheeks ofwonderful color, and eyes of the deepest blue. Lucile took in all thebeauty of her for the first time at a glance, and at the same moment coldterror 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 heardLucile break the most rigid rule of the house! She had talked back to acustomer!
White faced, staring, endeavoring to speak but uttering no sound, Lucilestood 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 thesection was gone.
In spite of her bravest efforts, tears rushed to Lucile's eyes. Onesplashed down on either cheek before she could check them. Were theytears 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, betterself.
"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, avoice at her elbow said:
"Will you sell me this? Could you have them hurry a little? I must make atrain. I really must." It was the harried and hurried lady of a half hourprevious. She had found another book and was making another train.
With great reluctance and much pent-up anger, Lucile waited upon her; andin the meantime, as was her wont, the Mystery Lady, the lady of thecrimson thread, had vanished.
"Who--who was the tall lady you were speaking to a moment ago?" shebreathlessly asked Cordie a moment later.
"How should I know? She asked me for a string to tie a package. Lots ofthem ask for string, or a piece of corrugated paper, or a card to write agreeting 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 beendrawn and neatly tied a bit of crimson thread with a single purplestrand.
"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'sgone."
"What?"
"My iron ring."
"The one you cut cord with?"
"I'm supposed to use it for that," Cordie tossed her head. "The thingcuts my finger. All the same, I ought to have it. You're supposed to turnsuch 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 thetime 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 doesthat for. This is the third time. It's the strangest thing I ever heardof." She fingered the crimson thread.
The melting away of great stocks of the year's most popular book foryoung people, "Blue Flames," was most amazing. A fresh truck load, threeor four hundred copies, ha
d come down that very morning. By mid-afternoonthey were two-thirds gone.
For a time, as she watched, Lucile's astonishment grew; then it began toebb. She was learning the secret of it. Laurie Seymour hovered over thepile constantly. Hardly a customer left him without purchasing one ormore copies. Apparently well informed regarding the contents of the book,he told still more regarding the personality of the author and how he hadgone about the task of gathering the material. All of the local color ofthe book was penned with minute exactness; the characters were true tolife; their actions, while not pedantic, were such as would lead girlsand boys to higher thinking and unselfish living. More than that, thestory contained precisely the elements which young people of to-daydemand. Action, adventure, suspense, mystery--all were here in proper andgenerous proportions. Thus he would describe the book.
"Yes," he would assure the prospective purchaser, "it's this year'spublication; not six weeks off the press and it sells for a dollar. Howis that possible? That it might have a large sale the author cut hisroyalty to one-third, and the publishers cut their profits accordingly.The book compares favorably with many a book selling for nearly twice theprice."
What customer could refuse such a book? Few did. Even more important thanthis was the fact that the other salespeople, especially those who werenew and had little knowledge of the stock but who were zealous for quicksales, listened to his lucid story of the book, and having learned it byheart, joined in selling it. There were times when clerks fluttered asthickly about that pile of books as sparrows around a crust of bread.
"Who is Laurie Seymour; why is he so greatly interested in thatparticular book, and how does he come to know so much about it?" Havingput these questions to herself, Lucile went about the task of askingothers about him. She asked Rennie and Donnie, the inseparable two whohad worked in that corner so long. She searched out Tommie, the young manof twenty who knew all about boys' books. She asked Morrison, of the finebindings section, and even Emmy, the veteran inspector. All shook theirheads. They had come down one morning, and there he was selling books.That had been two weeks previous. Someone had pulled some wires and herehe was. By-and-by the rush would be over, then out he would go. That wasthe way things were done at Christmas time. It wasn't worth while to caretoo much!
But Lucile did care. Her curiosity had been aroused. She wanted to knowmore about Laurie Seymour.
Her curiosity was given a trace of satisfaction that very evening. Atleast she found out who knew about Laurie. Yes, she found out, butthen----
She had come hurrying round a pillar when she all but ran into Laurie. Hehad been talking in low tones and laughing in notes quite as low. To hergreat surprise she saw that the person he was talking to was none otherthan the perfectly beautiful Miss Bruce, the head of the section.
"And to think," Lucile said to herself, "he actually appeared to bejoking her about something! And he a sales-person! Ah well, our chief isa star--would have been a star on any stage, and a star has a right to befriendly with any member of the cast."
"Well," she smiled to herself, "I know now who could tell me all aboutLaurie Seymour; but I'd never dare ask. Never! I'll have to find out someother 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 ofthe juvenile book section. Just what that past might have been, she couldnot guess.
"Perhaps," she told herself, "he is some artist getting pictures fromlife; or an actor gathering local color for a play, or--"
"Is your table in order?" It was Rennie who broke in upon hermeditations.
It wasn't, so she hurried away to forget, for the time being, LaurieSeymour and her perplexing problems.