CHAPTER VIII--ARMENIANS AND INJUNS; LIKEWISE BY-PRODUCTS
You can imagine that Jim Henry and Mary had a good deal of fun over myexperience with Lot and his tribe. They joked me about it consider'ble.But I didn't mind. My foot was all right again, or nearly so, and theextension to the store had been finished and was workin' out fine. Wemoved the mail room way back and that give us lots of room on the mainfloor, and Mary had a nice clean place, with plenty of air and light,new sortin' table, new desks, and all that. As for business, we donemore that summer than we had previous and it kept up surprisin' wellthrough the winter. I was happy and satisfied and Jacobs seemed to be.
But he wa'n't. It took a whole lot to satisfy him and, by the timeanother spring reached us and the cottages begun to open I could seethat he was gettin' fidgety. One mornin' he come back from a cruiseamongst the cottagers--he always handled their trade himself--and Icould see that he was about ready to bile over.
"Well," says I, "what's weighin' on your mind now? Or is it yourstomach? I'm willin' to bet that I'm two pound heftier than I was aforeI ate them hot biscuits at our boardin' house this mornin'; and you gotaway with three more'n I did. Has your ballast shifted, or what?"
He shook his head.
"Skipper," says he, "we're ruined by foreign cheap labor."
"You're right," says I. "I heard that that Dutch cook used to work in acement factory, and them biscuits prove it."
"Nothin' doin'," he says. "My noon lunch for two years was 'Draw onewith a plate of sinkers'; and when it comes to warm dough, I'm animmune. That Poquit House cook could practice on me for a week and neverdent my nickel-steel digestion. No. What I'm full of just now isembroidery."
I looked at him.
"See here, Jim Henry," says I, "you've got me a mile offshore in a fog.Unless you've swallowed your napkin, I don't see--"
"There! There!" he interrupted. "It's nothin' I've swallowed, I tellyou! It's somethin' I've seen that I _can't_ swallow. I can't swallowthose tan-faced, hook-nosed lace peddlers. It's only spring, yet theyare thicker round here already than lumps of saleratus in those biscuitwe've been talkin' about. They're separatin' perfectly good easy marksfrom money that belongs to us, and I'm gettin' mad. My Turkish blood'srisin', and there's likely to be another Armenian massacre in thisneighborhood pretty soon."
I understood what he meant then. Every summer for the last year or twothe Cape has been sufferin' from a plague of fellers peddlin' handmadelace, and embroidery, and such. They're all shades of color exceptwhite, and they talk all sorts of languages except plain United States;but, no matter what they look like or how they jabber, every last one ofthem claims to be an Armenian, and to have his hand satchel solid fullof native-made tidies, and tablecloths, and the like of that. I neverrun across the Armenian flag on any of my v'yages, but if it ain't adoily, then it ought to be.
And the prices they charge! Whew! A white man would blush every time henamed one; but these fellers, bein' all complexions, from light tanOxford to dark rubber boot, are born to blush unseen, and can chargefour dollars for a crocheted necktie and never crack, spot, nor fade.
Jim Henry was some on high prices himself; likewise, he considered thesummer cottagers and the hotel folks as more or less our specialproperty. Therefore, you can understand how this Armenian competitionriled and disturbed him. And, as it turned out, that very mornin' he'dgone to call on Mrs. Burke Smythe, who was one of the Ostable Store'sbest and most well-off customers, and found her ankle-deep in lamp matsand centerpieces which an Armenian specimen was diggin' out of a coupleof suit cases. And she'd told him that she couldn't pay our bill foranother month 'count of havin' spent all her "household allowance" onthe "loveliest set of embroidered dress and waist patterns" and suchthat ever was. There was the dress pattern. Didn't he think it was a"dear"?
Well, Jim Henry give in to the "dear" part--she'd paid sixty-fourdollars for it--and come away disgusted. These peddlers was takin' thecoin right out of our mouths, he vowed. What was we goin' to do aboutit?
"Keep our mouths shut, I guess," says I. "I can't see anything else."
But that wouldn't do for him. He went away growlin', and for the nextcouple of days he hardly said a word. I knew he was hatchin' some schemeor other, and I took care not to scare him off the nest. The thirdmornin', he came off himself, fetchin' his brood with him.
"Skipper," says he, joyful, "I believe I've got it. I believe I've gotthe idea that'll put those Armenians in the discard. You listen to me."
I listened, and what he'd hatched was somethin' like this: We--that is,the "Ostable Grocery, Dry Goods, Boots and Shoes, and Fancy GoodsStore"--would sell embroidery and crocheted plunder, and run thepeddlers out of business. We'd open a tidy department on our own hook.What did I think of that?
Well, I didn't think much of it, and I told him so.
"Don't believe we can do it," says I.
"Why not?" says he. "We can charge as much as they can, and that seemsto be the main thing."
"That ain't it," I told him. "We can't get the stuff to sell. Plenty ofmachine made, but the summer folks won't have that, cheap or high. Whatthey wake up nights and cry for is the genuine, hand-manufacturedarticle; and, unless you buy it off the peddlers themselves--which wouldbe unprofitable, to say the least--_I_ don't see where you're goin' toget it. Besides, if you could get it, sellin' it in a store wouldn't do.'Tain't romantic and foolish enough. Take this Burke Smythe woman," saysI; "she's a fair sample. She could have got just as nice, pretty dresspatterns out of a fashion magazine, or--"
"Great snakes!" he broke in. "You don't think 'twas a _paper_ patternshe paid sixty-four dollars for, do you?"
"Never mind what 'twas," I says, dignified; "'twould be all the same,paper or sheet iron. She wouldn't care for it at all if she'd bought itin a store. There's nothin' mysterious or romantic in that. But herecomes one of these liver-complected, black-haired fellers, lookin' forall the world like a pirate, and whispers in her ear he's got somethin'in that carpetbag of his that nobody else has got, and that'll make Mrs.General Jupiter Jones, or some other of the Smythe bosom friends, looklike a last summer's scarecrow. And, as a favor to her, he ain't showedit to Mrs. Jupiter--which is most likely a lie, but never mind--andhe'll sell it to her at a sixty-four-dollar sacrifice, because--"
"Hold on!" he interrupts. "Cut it out! Break away! Don't you s'pose I'vethought of that? Your old Uncle James Henry Jacobs, doctor of sickbusinesses, wa'n't born yesterday by about thirty-eight years. I ain'tfiggerin' to handle Armenian stuff. See here, Skipper. What makes thesummer bunch so crazy to get hold of old clocks, and old chains, andantique junk generally?"
"Well," says I, "for one thing, 'cause they _are_ antiques. For another,because they come from right here on the Cape, and--"
"That's it," he sings out. "And that's enough. Well, there's plenty ofhandmade embroideries and laces, not to mention lamp mats and bedquilts, made right here on the Cape, too. Last fall, the county fair hada buildin' solid full of 'em. This is my plan. Do stop your Doubtin'Thomas act, and listen."
The plan was sort of simple but complicated. Fust off, him and me was tosee all the old ladies and young girls in Ostable and the surroundin'country, and get 'em to agree to sell their handmade knittin' to us. Ifthey wouldn't sell to us direct, then we'd sell it for them oncommission. We'd fit up a room in the loft over the store, advertise itas the "Colonial Curio Shop" or the "Pilgrim Mothers' Exchange," or somesuch ridiculous or mysterious name, stock it full of the truck thewidows and orphans had been knittin' or tattin' all winter, drop a hintto the summer folks--and then set back and take the money.
"It'll go, I tell you," he says, enthusiastic. "It's a sure winner. Justsay the word, Skipper, and we'll start fittin' up the loft to-morrowmornin'."
"Well," says I, pretty doubtful, "if you're so sure, Jim, I--"
"Sure!" he broke in. "Why wouldn't I be sure? There's only one kind ofpeople that can get ahead of me in a business deal--and they don't hailfrom Armenia. Skipper, here's w
here we hand our peddlin' friends theirs,and then some."
Next mornin' he took the spare horse and started out. When he got backthat night, he had the bottom of the wagon covered with bundles ofknittin' and handmade contraptions, and he made proclamations that hehadn't begun to cover the available territory. He'd seen I don't knowhow many single females and widows who had the fancywork and crochetin'habit; and they sold him everything they had in stock, and promisedmore.
"They take to it like a duck to water," says he, joyful. "They're alldown on the peddlers, and they're goin' to pitch in and supply the homemarket. In another week you can't pass two houses in this town withouthearin' the merry click of the needle. To-morrow I canvass Denboro andBayport, and the next day I tackle Harniss. By Monday we'll be ready tofit up the loft."
And, sure enough, he was right. The amount of stuff he fetched back inthat wagon was surprisin'. How the female population of Ostable Countycould have turned out all that embroidery and found time to cook mealsand sweep, let alone make calls and talk about their neighbors, beat mea mile. But when he told me what he paid for the collection I begun tounderstand. However, I didn't say nothin'. 'Twa'n't until he commencedto rig up the room over the store that I spoke my thoughts.
"Why, Jim Henry!" I says. "What are you thinkin' of? Puttin' panelin' onthose walls! And paperin' with that expensive paper! It must have costland knows how much a roll. And, for the dear land sakes, what are thosecarpenters cuttin' that hole in the upper deck for?"
"For stairs, of course," says he. "Think the customers are goin' to flyup there? Don't bother me, Skipper, I'm busy."
"Stairs!" I sings out. "Why, there's stairs already. What's the matterwith the steps leadin' aloft from the back room? _We've_ used them eversince we've been here, and--"
"S-shh! S-shh!" says he, resigned but impatient. "Cap'n, your businessinstinct is all right in some things, like--like--well, I can't thinkwhat just now, but never mind. You're a good feller, but you're too aptto cal'late by last year's almanac. You ain't as up to date as you mightbe. Do you suppose Her Majesty Burke Smythe, and the rest of the RoyalFamily we're settin' this trap for, will take the trouble to hunt upthat back room, and fall over egg cases and kerosene barrels to find theladder to that loft? And climb the ladder after they find it? No, no!We'll have a flight of stairs right from the main part of this store,where they can't help seein' 'em. And there'll be old-fashioned rag matson the landin's, and brass candlesticks with candles in 'em at night,and--"
"Candles!" says I. "Well; that is the final piece of lunacy! Why, Icould light those stairs like a glory with kerosene lamps while a bodywas tryin' to get _sight_ of 'em with a candle! I never heard suchnonsense."
But 'twas no use. What we must do was make that loft "quaint," andold-fashioned, and the like of that. I didn't understand--and so on.
"All right," says I, "maybe I don't; but I do understand this: Judgin'by the amount of hard cash you've spent for lace tuckers and doilies,and the bill them stairs and panelin's and candlesticks'll come to, Idon't see a profit on the Pilgrim Curio Mothers' Exchange in ten yearbig enough to cover a five-cent piece."
He'd risk the profit. Besides, there was another reason for the stairs,and such. To get to 'em all, the rich folks would have to go rightthrough the store; and if they didn't buy anything upstairs they woulddown, sure and sartin. He was figgerin' on catchin' the transient trade,the automobile trade; and all around the foot of the stairs we'd havetemptin' lunches put up and set out, and bottles of ginger ale and boxesof cigars, and so forth, and so on. He preached for half an hour,windin' up with:
"Anyhow, Skipper, if the curio shop should lose money--which itwon't--it will bring customers to the Ostable Grocery, Dry Goods, Bootsand Shoes, and Fancy Goods Store, which is the main thing; that andkeepin' the coin in the United States instead of shippin' it to Armenia.The embroideries and laces are by-products, as you might say; and if aplant comes out even on its by-products, it's a payin' proposition."
He had me there. I didn't know a by-product from a salt herrin'; so Ishut up.
The "Old Colony Women's Exchange and Curio Room," which was the name hefinally picked out, opened at the end of a fortni't. Jacobs hadadvertised it in the papers, and put signs for miles up and down themain roads, let alone tellin' every well-off summer woman withinreachin' distance. And, almost from the very start, it done well. Theloft was crowded 'most every afternoon; and sometimes there'd be as manyas three automobiles anchored alongside our main platform.
At the end of the fust month, the Exchange had cleared--cleared, mindyou--over two hundred dollars; and Jim Henry was crowin' over me like aShanghai rooster over a bantam. He'd had another happy thought, and hadadded "antiques" to the stock in the loft; and the prices he got forlame chairs and rheumatic tables was somethin' scandalous. But it wa'n'tall joy. There was two things that troubled him.
One of the things was that the supply of knittin' and fancywork wasgivin' out. Likewise the "antiques." Of course, there was some on hand.Aunt Susannah Cahoon's yeller and black mittens, ear lappets, andtippets hadn't sold, and wa'n't likely to; and Abinadab Saint'salabaster whale-oil lamp with the crack in it, that his Great-unclePeleg brought home from sea, hadn't been grabbed to any extent. Butthese were the exceptions. 'Most all the good stuff had gone; and,though Jacobs had raked the county with a fine-tooth comb, as you mightsay, the reg'lar dealers from Boston had raked it ahead of him, andthere wa'n't any "antiques" left.
There was several reasons for the shortage in fancywork. One was thatthe knitters and tatters couldn't turn it out fast enough; and,moreover, the season for church fairs was settin' in, and the heft ofthe females, bein' reg'lar members in good standin', _had_ to tack shipand go to helpin' their meetin'-houses. So our stock was gettin' low,and Jim Henry was worried.
The other thing that worried him was that we couldn't get the right kindof help to sell the stuff. He couldn't tend to it himself, bein' toobusy otherwise. Mary had the post-office department on her hands. Theclerk and the delivery boys wa'n't fitted for the job at all; and, asfor me, I couldn't sell a blue sugar bowl without a cover for sevendollars and take the money. I knew the one that bought it was perfectlysatisfied, but I couldn't do it; I ain't built that way.
"It's no use, Jim Henry," says I. "I may be foolish, but I have ideasabout some things; and it's my notion that sartin kinds of folks arefitted by nature for sartin kinds of things. Now, Cape Codders they'refitted for seafarin', and such; and New Yorkers and Chicagoers, likeyou, are fitted for stock-brokin' and storekeepin'; and Italians forhand organs, and diggin' streets, and singin' in opera. And when itcomes to sellin' secondhand stuff or keepin' a pawnshop, there's--"
"Rubbish!" he snaps. "A while ago, you'd have said that the embroiderytrade was cornered by the Armenians. We've proved that's a fairy tale,ain't we? I've got some ideas myself. I know the kind of person I wantto run that Exchange, and, sooner or later, I'll find him--or her.Meantime, we'll have to do the best we can; and I'll take it as a favorif you'll let up on the hammer exercise."
I wa'n't sure what he meant by the "hammer exercise"; but 'twas plainenough that them "by-products" was a sore subject, and that he wasworried.
However, he wa'n't the only worried lace dealer in the neighborhood. TheOld Colony Exchange had made good in one direction, anyhow. It hadknocked the embroidery peddlin' business higher'n a kite. Where thereused to be a dozen suitcase luggers paradin' through the town, now youscarcely sighted one; and that one looked pretty sick and discouraged.The home market had smashed foreign competition for the time bein'; thatmuch was pretty sure. But our stock kept gettin' lower and lower, andthe auto crowds begun to go by now instead of stoppin'. And the few thatdid stop hardly ever bought anything unless Jim Henry himself was thereto hypnotize 'em into it.
One mornin' I came to the store pretty late, and found our clerk talkin'to a dark-complected chap with curly hair and a suitcase. I didn't shovemy bows into the talk; but, when 'twas over, I asked the clerk what thecritter wanted. He
laughed.
"Oh, he's the last survivor of the peddlin' crew," he says. "He ain'tsold a thing, and he's goin' back to Boston right off. I told him hemight as well. He asked a lot of questions about the Exchange, and Itook him upstairs and showed him around."
"You did?" says I. "What for?"
"Oh, just to let him see what he was up against, that's all. He was apretty decent feller--some of them Armenians ain't so bad--and I pitiedhim. He was awful discouraged. He'd heard Mr. Jacobs had been tryin' tohire a salesman for up there; and he hinted that he'd kind of like thejob."
"Did, hey?" says I. "Well, it's a good thing for you and him that Mr.Jacobs didn't catch you. He'd sooner have a snake on the premises thanone of them peddlers. What else did he say? Anything?"
Why, yes. It developed that he'd said a good deal. Asked where we gotour stuff, and so on. I judged 'twas a providence that I come in when Idid, or that clerk would have told every last word he knew. I didn't sayanything to Jim Henry. No use frettin' him unnecessary.
Three days after that the Injun showed up. I don't know as you know it,but there are a few Injuns left on the Cape--half-breeds, orthree-quarters, they are mostly; and they live up around CohassetNarrows, or off in the woods in those latitudes. This one was an oldfeller, black-haired, of course, and kind of fleshy, with a hook noseand skin the color of gingerbread. I heard talk upstairs in theExchange; and, when I went aloft, I found him and Jim Henry settin'among the by-products, and as confidential as a couple of rats in aschooner's hold. Soon as Jacobs seen me, he sung out for me to heavealongside.
"Look at that, Cap'n Zeb," he says. "What do you think of that?"
I took what he handed me, and looked at it. 'Twas a piece of handmadelace--a centerpiece, I believe they call it--and 'twas mighty well done.
"Think of it?" says I. "Well, I ain't much of a judge, but I'd call it apretty slick article. Who made it?"
The old black-haired chap answered.
"My sister," he says. "She make 'em. Make 'em plenty."
"Bully for her!" says I. "She's the lady we've been lookin' for. Maybeshe make some more; hey?"
He grinned; and Jacobs mentioned for me to clear out; so I done it. Heand old Gingerbread Face stayed aloft in that Exchange for upward of anhour; and, when they came down, Jim Henry went with him as fur as thedoor. When the stranger had gone, Jim turns to me and stuck out hishand.
"Skipper," says he, grinnin' like a punkin lantern, "shake! I've gotit."
"What have you got?" I asked. I was a little mite provoked at bein' sentbelow so unceremonious. "What have you got--Asiatic cholery? Thought youwouldn't have nothin' to do with Armenians."
"Armenians be hanged!" says he. "That's no Armenian. He's an Indian, afull-blooded Indian, or pretty near it. And his family is about the onlyfull-bloods left. There's a colony of them up the Cape a ways; and itseems that they pick berries in the summer, and put in their wintersturnin' out stuff like that centerpiece. He heard about the Exchange,and he's come way down here to see if we bought such things. I told himwe bought 'em with bells on, and he'll be back here to-morrow withanother load."
Sure enough, he was, load and all; and 'twould have astonished you tosee what fust-class fancywork his sister and the rest of the squawsturned out. Jacobs bought the whole lot, and ordered more; said he'dtake all the tribe could scare up; and old Gingerbread--his Americanname, so he said, was Rose, Solomon Rose--went away happy. When I foundwhat Jim Henry had paid him for the plunder, I didn't blame Rose forbein' joyful.
But Jacobs didn't care. He was all excitement and hurrah again. He had anew addition made to the Exchange sign. 'Twas "The Old Colony Women'sExchange, Curio Room, and Indian Exhibit" now; and inside of two daysthe Burke Smythes and their friends was callin' reg'lar, the autoparties was rollin' up to the door, and the money was rollin' in. Injunembroidery was somethin' new; and the summer gang snapped at it likebullfrogs at a red rag.
Then that partner of mine was seized violent with another rush of ideasto the head. I'm blessed if he didn't hire old Rose--the "Last of theMohicans," he called him, among other ridiculous and outlandishnames--to spend his days in that Injun Exchange loft. Paid him tendollars a week, he did, just to set there and look the part. 'Twas asinful waste of money, 'cordin' to my notion; but Jim Henry shut me uplike a huntin'-case watch--with a snap.
"Who said he could sell?" he wanted to know. "I didn't, did I? I don'tknow that he can't--he's shrewd enough when it comes to sellin' us thestuff he brings with him; but if he don't sell a fifty-cent article--"
"Which he won't," I interrupted; "for there's nothin' less thantwo-seventy-five _in_ the robbers' den, and you know it. How you havethe face to charge--"
"Will you be quiet?" he wanted to know. "As I say, whether he sells ornot, he's wuth his wages twice over. Can't you understand? Just obligeme by rubbin' your brains with scourin' soap or somethin', and _try_ tounderstand. All the auto bunch ain't lambs; some of them--the malesespecially--are a fairly cagey collection; and there's been doubtsexpressed concernin' the genuineness of our Injun exhibit. But with oldUncas--with the Last of the Mohicans himself right on deck as a livin'guarantee, why, we could sell clam-shells as small change from Sittin'Bull's wampum belt, and never raise a sacrilegious question even from aUnitarian freethinker. It's a cinch."
"See here, Jim Henry," says I, "if this thing's a fraud, I won't haveanything to do with it."
"Neither will I," says he, emphatic. "Frauds don't pay, not in the longrun. But grandmother's genuine antiques and the A-number-one, Simon-pureembroideries of the noble red man--or woman--pay, and don't you forgetit."
They did pay; and old Mohican himself was a payin' investment, too, inspite of my doubts and Jeremiah prophesyin'. He made a ten-strike withevery female that hit that loft. They said he was so "quaint," and"odd," and "pathetic." Mrs. Burke Smythe vowed there was somethin' "big"and "great" about him--meanin' his nose or his boots, I presumelikely--and, somehow or other, though he didn't look like a salesman, hesold. And every week or so he'd take a day off and go back home, toreturn with a fresh supply of tidies, and lace, and gimcracks. I changedmy mind about Injuns. I see right off that all the yarns I'd read about'em was lies. They didn't murder nor scalp their enemies--they smothered'em with lamp mats.
And 'twa'n't fancywork alone that the Rose critter fetched back fromthese home v'yages of his. He struck an "antique" vein somewheres in thereservation; and not a week went by that he didn't resurrect an oldbedstead or a table or a spinnin' wheel or somethin', and fetched 'emdown in an old wagon towed by an old white horse. The "children of theforest"--which was another of Jim Henry's names for the Injuns andhalf-breeds--didn't give up these things for nothin'; far from it. Wehad to pay as much as if they was made of solid silver; but we sold 'emat gold prices, so that part was all right.
And every other day Jacobs would ask me what I thought of "by-products"now. As for Armenian competition, it was dead. There wa'n't any.
Well, three more weeks drifted along, and the summer season was 'mostover. Then, one Tuesday mornin', old Rose, the Mohican, didn't show up.He'd gone away on Friday cal'latin' to be back Monday with a fresh lotof "antiques" and centerpieces; but he wa'n't. And Tuesday and Wednesdaypassed, and he didn't come. Jim Henry was awful worried. We needed morestock, and we needed our Injun curio; and nothin' would do but I mustturn myself into a relief expedition and hunt him up.
"Somethin's happened, sure," says Jacobs. "He's never missed his timeafore. Those fellers pride themselves on keepin' their word--you readCooper, if you don't believe it--and he's sick or dead; one or theother."
"Dead nothin'!" says I. "He's too tough to kill, and nothin' would makehim sick but soap and water, which ain't one of his bad habits by aconsider'ble sight. However, if it'll make you any easier, I'll take themornin' train and locate him if I can."
"Go ahead," says he. "I'd do it myself, but I can't leave just now. Goahead, Skipper, and don't come back till you've got him, or found outwhy he isn't on hand."
S
o I took the mornin' train and set out to locate the noble red man.
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