“How do you get them?” said Hector.
“It’s entirely a matter of money.”
“Yes; I expected that. Who has them?”
“Well, don’t tell anybody I told you, but Pimples Buckle always has a few.”
Hector had not been permitted, at his first visit, to see Pimples himself. He had talked with a dark, greasy young man, who wore sidewhiskers and a dirty sweatshirt, in the office of Uneeda Taxi, which was the legitimate part of Pimples’ business. Unwillingly he had revealed to the young man what he wanted, and the young man had chewed a match and looked at him with scorn.
“Ain’t no use talkin’ to Pimples now,” he had said. “Come back the day before the dance.”
“You’ll tell him what I want?”
“Yeah.”
“Shall I ‘phone him before I come in?”
“Naw. Pimples don’t like the ‘phone. Don’t be a dope. And bring cash.”
“How much?”
“Dunno. Better bring plenty.”
At half past four on the day before the ball Hector stood in the inner office of Uneeda Taxi, and Pimples Buckle sat with his feet on a rolltop desk.
“Well prof,” said he, “so you want a ticket to the Big Ball.”
“Yes,” said Hector.
“What’s the matter? Did yours get lost in the mail?”
“I have no invitation. That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh, so that’s why you’re here, eh? Funny, I was wondering what brought you.”
“I supposed you knew. I left a message with your man outside.”
“Wop? Yeah, he told me you’d been in. But what I want to know is this: what makes you think I’ve got any tickets, eh?”
“Somebody said you usually had a few.”
“Jeeze, the stories that get around. Why, prof, don’t you know I could get into a lotta trouble selling tickets to the Ball? And you’d get in trouble too; you’d be an accessory after the fact, and you’d be compounding a felony, and Jeeze knows what else.”
“Have you any tickets?”
“Not so fast, prof. You remember me, don’t you?”
“Yes, I remember you.”
“Yeah, you was new at the school the last year I was there. I was in one of your classes. Algebra. And you remember what you used to tell us? Take it easy, you used to say; just take it easy. Well, prof, you take it easy now. Would you like to sit down?”
“Thank you, I would.”
“Well, you can’t because there ain’t no chair.” Pimples chuckled with enjoyment. “Now, prof, why do you want to go to this Ball?”
“Is that any affair of yours?”
“I’ll say it is. You don’t look the type, somehow. Who’s the broad?”
“The—?”
“The dame. What’s a guy like you want to go to the Ball for if it ain’t to take some dame? You want to romance her under the stars, prof?”
“If you will sell me a ticket, let’s do it now.”
“Jeeze, you’re touchy. Most fellows your age would be complimented to think somebody thought they was after a dame. Are you getting plenty of what she’s got?”
“What is your price?”
“Very special to you prof. Fifty bucks. I always treat my old teachers right.”
“Fifty!”
“Sure. This ain’t no two-bit belly-rub you’re going to, y’know.”
Sick with humiliation and outraged prudence, Hector counted out five ten-dollar notes. Pimples reached into an inner pocket and produced an envelope, from which he drew an engraved and crested card in the upper left-hand corner of which was written, in an official hand, “Hector Mackilwraith, Esq.”
“Make sure you get your fifty bucks worth outa the broad,” he said, winking cheerily, as Hector hurried from the room.
There was a very good crowd at the auction, which was gratifying to young Mr Maybee, for he had worked hard to persuade old Mr Elliot that the day of the Ball was a good day to hold it. Mr Elliot, product of a more leisurely age, had insisted that every woman of the sort who might be expected to attend the sale of a professor’s effects would be at home on such an afternoon, lying in a darkened room with pads of cotton soaked in ice-water upon her eyes. Mr Maybee had assured his partner that, on the contrary, all of Salterton would be keyed up and eager for amusement, and what was more amusing than an auction in June? He had carried his point, and here was the crowd to prove it. The morning sale, when the bedroom furnishings and kitchen effects had been sold, had been successful; the goods had brought within fifty dollars of what he had privately estimated, and he congratulated himself on good selling and good reckoning. This afternoon he hoped to do a little better than his estimate. Like an actor, or a concert performer, he put out his feelers—his sensitive auctioneer’s antennae—to receive intuitions from his audience. It was a good audience, alert, receptive to suggestion, and sufficiently excited by the thought of the approaching Ball to be ready to bid freely. After a few deep breaths to refresh his voice, Mr Maybee stepped upon his auctioneer’s rostrum, and looked out over the lawn at the bidders, the curiosity seekers, the amateurs of auctions, some standing, some perched on shooting sticks. He rapped upon the table with his pencil, and promptly at two o’clock the afternoon sale began.
It was not, Mr Maybee recognized, a great sale. Old Dr Savage had owned no treasures. His furniture had been very good in its time, but like many people who live to a great age, the old scholar had become indifferent to his household belongings; Mr Maybee’s trained eye told him that nothing of consequence in the house had been bought after 1925; most of the furnishing had been done about 1905. The leather chairs had scuffed, scabby surfaces; a velvet-covered sofa, upon which the Doctor had taken his afternoon nap for many years, showed all too plainly at one end that he had done so with his boots on, and at the other that he had drooled as he slept. The furniture seemed to have died with its owner; chairs which had looked well enough in the house showed weak legs when held up for sale; water-colours which had looked inoffensive on the walls seemed, on this sunny day, to be all of weak and ill-defined blues and greys, like old men’s eyes. But Mr Maybee was not discouraged. He knew what people would buy.
To the surprise of everyone except Mr Maybee, the large pieces of furniture went cheap, and the trinkets went dear. A large and ugly oak dining table, with ten chairs and a hideous sideboard, went for forty-five dollars; a tea-wagon brought forty-two. A couple of lustre jugs, which Valentine could not remember seeing before, fetched the astonishing sum of thirty-six dollars for the pair. The silver sold well, for though it was ugly, it was sterling. A mantel clock, presented to Dr Savage thirty years before by the Waverley Philosophical Society, brought a staggering initial bid of fifty dollars, and went at last for eighty, though it had never been known to keep time. A kitchen clock, which Mr Maybee waggishly announced would keep either Standard or Daylight Saving Time, was sold to an Indian from a nearby reservation for six dollars, which was four dollars more than it was worth. A bundle of walking-sticks was sold to a sentimentalist who had learned a little elementary philosophy from the Doctor many years before, for five dollars. A Bechstein piano which had belonged to Valentine’s grandmother was bid for briskly after Mr Maybee had played a spirited polka on it, and brought three hundred dollars. A teak workbox, described by Mr Maybee as the life’s work of a life prisoner in the nearby penitentiary, brought a beggarly four dollars, which the auctioneer mentally estimated to be about ten cents for every pound of its weight.
Freddy enjoyed the sale thoroughly. She wondered, however, how long it would be before the wooden box of books would be offered.
But Hector’s message had been received by Mr Elliot, who had passed it on to Mr Maybee, and it was not until half-past four that it appeared. By that time Hector was standing at the back of the crowd.
“A box of books, ladies and gentlemen. I cannot offer you a more exact description. As you know, Dr Savage’s library was given away yesterday, according to his own wis
h, to the clergy of Salterton.” (There was some laughter here, which Mr Maybee rebuked with his eye.) “These few remaining books were discovered in the Doctor’s vault after that disposal. Anyone who wishes a sentimental souvenir of a great scholar and gentleman cannot do better than acquire this lot. What am I bid?.. Come along, there’s a spice of mystery about this box; you don’t know what you’ll get…What do I hear? Who’ll say a dollar for a starter? A dollar, a dollar, a dollar—do I hear a dollar?”
“Fifty cents,” said Freddy, and blushed fiercely as people turned to look at her.
“I have fifty. Who’ll say a dollar? A dollar for the mystery box. Come on, you can’t lose. At least ten books here, each one worth a dollar apiece. A dollar, a dollar, a dollar. Aha, I have a dollar. Thank you sir.”
Freddy turned towards the bidder. Old Mackilwraith! What did he want books for? He didn’t look as though he ever read anything but examination papers. Except menus, she thought spitefully. She caught Mr Maybee’s eye, and nodded firmly.
Two; two, two. I have two dollars for the mystery box.”
Hey, thought Freddy; I meant another fifty cents.
Three; three; three. The gentleman at the back offers me three.”
Freddy nodded again.
Hector was quite as much annoyed as Freddy. What did she want with those books? Should he hurry to her and tell her that he was buying them for her sister? But the bidding was moving too quickly. The box was now at ten dollars, and the bid was Freddy’s. He nodded again. Eleven dollars! It was ridiculous.
Mr Maybee was delighted. It was such odd contests at this time which made his life a pleasure, and picked up the sums which he could not realize from old-fashioned dining-room sets and scabrous old couches. The bidding proceeded briskly, and he knew that he had two stubborn people on his hook.
The box now stood at eighteen dollars. As Hector raised it to nineteen, Freddy made a great decision. She had only twenty dollars, but she could not be beaten; she had to have the box, now. She would simply go on, and explain to Daddy how matters had stood. Surely he would understand. He wouldn’t want her to be beaten in public, like this. And even if he didn’t understand he would have to pay up; he couldn’t let her go to jail. People would say he had neglected her, and make a delinquent of her.
“Twenty,” said she, boldly.
“Twenty-one,” said Hector, and his face was flushed so deeply that it seemed in danger of going quite black.
On the bidding went until Freddy was at twenty-eight. She faltered. Thirty dollars was a terrible sum of money to pay for a box of—what? It might be old hymn-books for all she knew. Her eyeballs were very hot, and she was afraid that she might cry. But she wouldn’t. She closed her lips firmly and looked down at the grass.
“I have twenty-nine. Twenty-nine dollars in this epic contest between two people who really know their literature! Do I hear thirty? All through at twenty-nine? Another dollar may do the trick! Am I all through at twenty-nine?”
Hector hated Freddy with the deadly hate of a man who had been made a fool of by a petty gangster, and who was now, twenty-four hours later, being made a fool of by a child. Hector was not mean, but the circumstances of his life had made him careful with money; it was the sinew of every success he had ever known. Fifty dollars to Pimples Buckle and now, twenty-nine dollars for these books! Even the children of the Webster family, it appeared, had long purses. But he had beaten her!
“Ah, I have thirty! Thank you sir. Thirty; thirty; thirty. Will you say thirty-one?”
Hector said thirty-one almost without thinking, as he sought the new bidder. There he was. A Jew! Hector became anti-Semitic in a fraction of a second.
The new bidder was, quite plainly, a Jew. A calm, bold man with a cigar, he had been unnoticed in the crowd until this moment.
The bidding rose, dollar by dollar, as Hector sweat nervous drops which seemed to draw his strength from him. The books were with the stranger, at forty. On Hector plunged, and a dreadful headache seized him. The crowd was delighted. Mr Maybee almost sang.
The books were with Hector at forty-nine. The stranger bobbed his head. Hector could bear no more. He was beset by fiends. In a blasphemous moment he permitted himself not to care whether Griselda had Victorian novels to read or not.
“Sold at fifty, to the gentleman with the cigar!”
There was a flutter of applause, mingled with some sounds of disapproval. The contest for the books had been enlivening, but a Salterton audience was not sure that it was suitable that the victory should go to a stranger. It was widely felt that the Jew, though a bold bidder, had shown himself a little too pushing. There were few things to be sold after the box of books, and by five o’clock most of the crowd had gone.
When the unknown bidder sought out the clerk after the sale, to pay his money and claim his books, he found Hector and Freddy waiting for him.
“Do you mind telling me why you wanted that box?” said Hector, more angrily than was wise.
“Surely you know why,” said the stranger, coolly.
“No, I don’t.”
“Then why did you bid on it yourself?”
“I wanted those books for a special purpose.”
“And so do I,” said the stranger. It was at this moment that Valentine joined them. She too wanted to know why so much had been bid for a box to which she had given no thought.
“Oh, surely you know,” said the stranger. It took the three of them a few minutes to convince him that they knew nothing at all about it, and had not given the box more than a cursory examination. His eyelids drooped a little, and he smiled.
“You really ought to be more careful,” he said to Valentine. “Let me show you what I mean.”
He reached into the box and pulled out a package, which he unwrapped.
“You see,” said he; “Under Two Flags, in three volumes, published by Chapman and Hall in 1867; in very good condition. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing,” said Valentine. “It’s by Ouida, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It is quite a valuable book. Now look at this: East Lynne, by Mrs Henry Wood; published by Tinsley in 1861. Very nice.”
“Valuable?” asked Freddy.
“Not so valuable as the other, by a long shot. But worth about a hundred and fifty dollars.”
There was a heavy silence. Young Mr Maybee had joined the group, and his nice blue eyes opened very wide at the mention of this sum.
“But you really should have been careful of this,” said the stranger, unwrapping three more volumes. “You see: Lady Audley’s Secret; the author’s name is not given, but it was M. E. Braddon; published by Skeet in 1862. This really is a treasure.”
“How much?” It was Valentine who spoke this time.
“Hard to say. At a rough guess I would put it at about twenty-five hundred dollars. I spotted them at once when I was looking around yesterday. Pure luck, or perhaps flair; I’m here for a brief holiday, but I never take complete holidays. I am sorry about this, but if you had wanted to keep it you should not have put it up at auction, should you?”
Neither Valentine nor Mr Maybee had anything to say. The stranger transferred the books to a briefcase which he carried, and in doing so revealed an envelope which lay at the bottom of the box. It was addressed to Valentine in her grandfather’s hand. She read it at once.
My dear—
As I fear that you will find little among my things that you may wish to keep, I leave you these books, which I have had by me for some time. You can easily take them back to the States with you, and if you take them to a good bookseller—a really good one—he will give you a price for them which may surprise you. Look upon this as a special bequest from me, and one upon which you will not have to pay inheritance tax.
With my fondest love
A.S.
“Well, I shall say good-bye,” said the stranger. “If you ever happen to be in New York, and are interested in rare books, I shall be happy to show you what I
have in my shop. Here is my card.”
Only Mr Maybee had the presence of mind to take it. The group broke up, and four of them went their different ways with painful and conflicting thoughts buzzing in their heads.
Long before the light began to fade on this beautiful June day the ladies of Salterton were dressing themselves for the dinner parties which came before the Ball. Already in the composing room of the local newspaper the long galleys of type were ranged in which their gowns were described, for the Society Editor had been busy on the telephone for three days past. Every lady who was to be present at the great affair had been called, and asked for a description of what she would wear; in some cases this call was inspired by courtesy rather than curiosity, for particularly among the older ladies it was not unknown for a gown to make several annual appearances, and the Society Editor could have done much of her work by simply consulting the back files. The descriptions which appeared were very brief; they conveyed nothing, to the stranger, of the real appearance of some of these remarkable garments; but to the informed reader they were rich in information. The briefest extract will suffice:
Mrs A. M. Mangin: lilac crepe, with lamé panel to tone. Miss Dymphna M’Dumphy: rust satin, with scarf in the M’Dumphy tartan, and a parure of cairngorms. Mrs Shakerley Marmion: wine velvet. Mrs M. Medbourne: écru shantung, with panels of self-coloured lace. Mrs E. P. Moubray: amethyst cut velvet. Mrs James Mylne: pleated puce crepe, with inserts of Paddy green moire…etc., etc.
The persistent reader, seeking information about the ladies associated with the Little Theatre’s forthcoming production, might have compiled his own paragraph, thus:
Mrs Roscoe Forrester: champagne lace. Miss Valentine Rich: flame taffeta. Miss Bonnie-Susan Tompkins: a strapless peach satin, with slit skirt. Miss Pearl Vambrace: pink organdie with puff sleeves. Miss Griselda Webster: white silk jersey, with Greek drapery.
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