8. ACKERTON
Jeff awakened an hour before sunrise. He raised himself on his bunk andlistened. Dan's regular breathing proved that he still slept, and Jeffsettled back beneath his warm blankets to do some thinking.
In some respects, the trading around Smithville had not gone as well ashe had hoped it would. The hill men had been eager for his knives ofmany uses, his fishing tackle, his small tools, his nails and all thebolts and screws he had. They had also taken all the novelties. But theyhad spurned his inferior products because they could make better onesthemselves, and Jeff had been able to trade only one watch. Watches wereuseless to those who guided themselves by the sun.
The women had been happy over the gay ribbons, the thread and yarn, thepins and needles, and the bolt of gingham had gone in two days. It wasbetter and more colorful than anything Abel Tarkman stocked. But thewomen had wanted only a small portion of his kitchenware and spices.Jeff had traded all his cinnamon, pepper, tea and the few other thingsthat could not be found locally. But no hill woman would think ofoffering anything at all for what she could find growing within easyreach of her doorstep or was able to produce in her garden.
The candy had been exhausted by the third day, and Jeff grinned at theway it had gone. He had conceived what he thought was the clever idea ofbribing the children with it, and he had discovered that the older folkshad a sweet tooth, too. Never to be forgotten was Grandpa Severance,sucking a striped peppermint stick with toothless jaws.
However, in other respects, trading had far exceeded Jeff's fondesthopes.
Though the hill people had rejected some of his wares, they had beenwilling to pay well for what they did want. Jeff and Dan had visitedtheir cabins or met them on the trails, for news that a peddler who'drather trade than sell was abroad had penetrated into the remotestvalleys. Jeff had a dozen hunting knives whose quality ranged from fairto superb. There were three exquisitely balanced hand-made hatchets, awonderfully polished hunting horn, a set of fine miniatures made of deerantler, a fringed buckskin shirt, four pairs of superior moccasins andother articles, including an ancient matchlock pistol still in workingorder. Granny Wilson's tapestries remained his biggest prize.
Jeff knew that, beyond any doubt, his week's work had paid him more thanany previous month's. But he knew also that he would have to get tradegoods that conformed to the hill people's idea of what they wanted.Therefore, in order to get new stock and dispose of the wares he had, atrip to Ackerton was necessary. That presented a problem.
Dan had traveled with him all week. Far from lagging, his interest intrading had heightened. So far Dan had kept his promise and had done asJeff said. But by the fastest route it would take a full day to go toAckerton, a full day to return, and Jeff thought that he would need atleast four or five days in the city. What would Dan do if Jeff were notthere to restrain him? The boy had never forgotten that a blood feud hadbrought him back to Smithville.
Dan's bunk rustled and he whispered, "Jeff."
"I'm here."
"Just wanted to see if you're awake."
As it usually did when he needed it most, happy inspiration came toJeff.
"I'm awake all right and I want you to do something for me."
"Sure, Jeff."
"I'm going to Ackerton today and I may be gone a week or more. I wantyou to take Pal and go up to watch over Granny Wilson."
"But--"
"She needs somebody," Jeff urged. "You and I have stopped in therealmost every day and kept an eye on her. We can't just leave her alone."
Dan said reluctantly, "All right, Jeff. Can I take the shotgun?"
"You'd just better."
His problem neatly solved, Jeff relaxed. When Dan announced that he hadbeen assigned as her protector, Granny, in her wisdom, would accept himas such. If he should get out of hand, the shotgun shells were loadedwith nothing but paper. They'd make a satisfactory noise but wouldn'thurt anybody.
Jeff prepared their breakfasts, they cleaned the cabin, and with theshotgun over one shoulder, half-pulling the unwilling Pal with his freehand, Dan started for Granny Wilson's. Pack on his shoulder, Jeff strodeinto Smithville.
There were two routes to Ackerton. The hard one was over the mountains.The easy one was eighteen miles down the logger's road to Delview, wherea train could be boarded, and Jeff chose that way. He walked swiftly,anxious to make time, but even as he walked he filed in his mind thelocations of the cabins he either passed or saw evidence of. There werevast possibilities for trade around Smithville. So far he and Dan hadexplored only a small part of it.
Half past twelve brought him to Delview, and Jeff walked openly down thestreet. Larger than Cressman, Delview was busier, and Jeff's peddlinginstincts cried for expression. He submerged them; a city was the onlyplace to offer the wares he carried now. Jeff stopped when a policemantapped his shoulder.
"Are you peddling?"
"No," Jeff answered blandly, "just passing through."
"You come from Cressman?"
"Cressman? I came from Smithville."
"Just thought I'd ask. Been fishing?"
"Hunting," Jeff said gravely.
He grinned to himself and walked on. Obviously, Pop and Joe Parker hadsent word to Delview, but just as obviously they'd told the police thereto be alert for a red-headed peddler accompanied by a huge dog. Onimpulse, Jeff stopped at a drugstore, bought a postcard, addressed it toJoe Parker, and wrote, "Thanks for sending me to Delview. Regards toPop. Happy days."
He signed it J. Seymour Tarrant, Esq., dropped it into a mail box, madehis way to the station and bought a ticket to Ackerton.
* * * * *
Leaving Delview at half past three, and stopping several times en route,the train did not reach Ackerton until a quarter to eight. Jeff bore theslow ride serenely, for only the unwise thought that they must foreverhurry. Besides, time could always be used to good advantage and the slowtrain was a heaven-sent opportunity to work out a plan. Arriving inAckerton, Jeff had a clear idea of just what he wanted to do there.
He left the train and made a confident way through the huge station. Hehad the pack on his back because that was the easiest way to carry it,and he met the curious stares directed at him with a good-natured grin.He was as out of place here as a well-dressed Ackertonite would havebeen in Smithville, and he elicited the same curiosity. But he did notmind because he had been in cities before and he would be forgotten assoon as he was out of sight. Jeff's questing eyes found a paper bannerdisplayed above one of the station's newsstands:
HOTEL KENNARD, ACKERTON'S BEST
He glanced at the banner and followed a pointing arrow with TAXIstenciled on it. Imperiously he beckoned the lead cab and directed, "TheHotel Kennard."
The cabbie looked questioningly at him. "The Kennard?"
"The Kennard," Jeff repeated, "and since I know the shortest way, youmight as well follow it."
The cabbie shrugged; if this ill-dressed traveler wanted to go to theKennard, and was able to pay for the trip, that was his affair. Jeffrelaxed in the back seat and gave himself over to enjoying a city'ssights, sounds, and bustle. Maybe, if he were a very wealthy merchant,instead of a peddler, he would enjoy such a place himself. A momentlater he decided that he wouldn't. Half his fun lay in personal contactwith customers, and there was little that was personal about citybusiness. The cab halted at the curb and the driver opened the door.
"Just a second," Jeff directed.
He glanced swiftly at the Kennard and was satisfied. It was in one ofthe better sections, and the well-dressed men and women going in and outwere proof enough that it was, if not the best, at least one of the besthotels. Thus Jeff had the base of operations that he wanted. He paid thecabbie and entered the hotel.
The lobby was plush, with thick carpeting, marble pillars, and the usualquota of those who were waiting or simply loafing in upholstered chairs.Heads rose, and Jeff winked slyly at an obviously affluent man whopeered at him over the top of a paper. Embarrassed
, the man ducked backbeneath his paper. Jeff made his way to the desk.
"First floor room with bath," he directed loftily. "I wish to be awayfrom street noises and," he looked critically around the lobby, "Iprefer the better furnishings."
The blase clerk, who had registered all sorts of guests but few likethis, took Jeff's measure with his eye.
"Those rooms are five dollars a day."
"My good man! I asked for a room, not advice!"
"Ye--" the clerk was still suspicious but he was also there to rentrooms. "Yes, sir. Overnight only?"
"My stay is indefinite."
Jeff signed the register with a flourishing "Jeffrey S. Tarrant,"accepted the key and gave his pack over to a solemn-faced bellboy wholed him down a corridor. He examined the room as he entered, displayed adollar bill, flipped a quarter and said to the bellboy,
"Bring me a city directory, will you?"
"Yes, sir."
The bellboy left, knocked discreetly a few minutes later, handed Jeff abulky directory, and Jeff tipped him a dollar. He washed and, carelessof the glances he attracted, enjoyed a good dinner in the Kennard'sdining room. Then he returned to his room, belly-flopped on the bed,opened the directory, laid a pencil and sheet of paper on it and beganto run his finger down the columns. He came to "Barnerson, Joseph D.,dlr. antqes. 413 Grand Ave.," and wrote the information on his sheet ofpaper. Jeff noted five more dealers in antiques, six sporting goodsstores and six shops chosen at random which, from their listings, seemedto cater to exclusive trade. That done, he referred to a city map in thesame book and drew a line through whatever did not seem to be in one ofAckerton's better districts.
The first phase of his campaign was outlined. Jeff rang for the eveningpapers and read until he was too sleepy to read any more.
From force of habit he awoke at dawn, but turned over and went back tosleep. The hill people began their day with the first light, but he wasin a city now. Jeff awoke again at eight o'clock, breakfasted and madehis way to the street. He wandered down it and entered the firstclothing store he found.
"I want a business suit," he told the clerk who accosted him.
"This way, sir."
The clerk tried to read Jeff, thought he'd succeeded, and brought out asuit that had been in style fifteen years ago and probably in storagesince.
Jeff rose with a curt, "Don't you have any new suits?"
"Oh! Sorry, sir. My error."
He fitted Jeff with a neat blue serge suit, a white shirt, a modest butsmart tie, a pair of socks, and new shoes. Jeff took his old clothesback to the Kennard, wrapped one of Barr Whitney's knives, thrust itinto his inside coat pocket and went out. His trap was set and scented.Now he had to see if he would catch anything.
There were four sporting goods stores still on his list, but Jeff passedthe first because its windows were dirty and the second because itadvertised a bargain sale. But the third seemed to offer what he wanted.He asked the friendly clerk who came forward, "Is Mr. Ryerson in?"
"No, he isn't. But Mr. Calworth is."
"May I see him?"
"This way."
Jeff followed the clerk down the aisle and examined the store closely ashe did so. The fire arms, fishing tackle and other sporting equipmentdisplayed on the counters was all of quality make and he hadn't beenasked for an appointment, so evidently this store catered to sportsmenable to afford the best and at the same time it was not overly formal.The clerk ushered him into an office and Jeff's hopes rose.
"Mr. Calworth," the clerk said, "this gentleman wants to see you."
"My name's Tarrant," Jeff shook Mr. Calworth's extended hand, "JeffTarrant, and I'd hoped you'd be kind enough to furnish me with someinformation."
"Sit down, Mr. Tarrant."
Mr. Calworth was middle-aged, and a sprinkling of gray showed in hisblack hair. But there was a sparkle in his eyes, an ease of movement andcallouses on his hands. Obviously he did something besides sit at adesk, and Jeff guessed shrewdly that he was an outdoor enthusiasthimself. Jeff took the proffered chair and draped himself carelessly,but not too carelessly, upon it.
"I represent Tarrant Enterprises," Jeff almost added the Ltd., butcaught himself in time. "We may wish to expand."
"Are you in sporting goods?"
"Partly."
"And you're considering Ackerton?"
"Yes and no. That's what I hope to decide."
"There's plenty of room, Mr. Tarrant."
"But how much _good_ room?"
Mr. Calworth laughed. "I'll tell you frankly. There are a variety ofsporting goods stores, but Ryerson and Hapley split forty-five per centof the trade and ninety per cent of the most desirable trade. However,there is no reason why an aggressive newcomer should not do very well."
Jeff bent forward. "Is there a survey--Oh!" Purposely arranged to do so,the knife in his pocket had slipped and thrust the front of his new coatoutward. Grinning his embarrassment, Jeff took the knife from his pocketand balanced it on his knee.
Mr. Calworth's eyes followed his movements. "What do you have there?"
"One of our specialties." Jeff gave him the knife. "A rather exceptionalpiece."
Mr. Calworth slipped the knife from its sheath, and his eyes warmed ashe examined it. He tested the blade with his thumb and shaved a coupleof hairs from the back of his hand. When he turned to Jeff, he wasinterested.
"You specialize in this sort of thing?"
"We specialize in quality," Jeff said casually. "When we sell, we liketo believe that the customer receives full value."
"Do you get many articles as good?"
Jeff shrugged. "Look at it. Can that be mass-produced?"
"No," Mr. Calworth admitted. "What is your retail price on this knife?"
"Twenty dollars," Jeff said firmly.
"When do you intend to open your branch, Mr. Tarrant?"
"I'm not sure we will open it. At least, we won't until after much moreextensive research."
"Would you care to make Ryerson your agent until you decide definitely?"
Jeff deliberated. Then, "I hadn't thought of an agency."
"It can't hurt you and it might make you some money. I'll continue to befrank. This is not something to offer an average customer because hesimply cannot afford it. But there are sportsmen who can, and they cometo Ryerson's. We'll take this, and any other quality merchandise youhave, at a thirty per cent discount."
Jeff thought of Barr's other knife, a few of the rest, the hatchets, thebridle reins, and made a swift calculation. Not all were equallyvaluable, but all were quality. If Ryerson paid him cash, he would morethan make up for everything he had dispensed from his pack, his trainfare, his expenses in Ackerton, and he would still have valuable goods.He said finally, "It should work to our mutual benefit."
"May we expect some more soon?" Mr. Calworth asked.
"I have a few in my sample case at the Kennard. You may have those assoon as I've time to deliver them and more in--shall we say threeweeks?"
"I'll send a clerk for what you have," Mr. Calworth promised, "and leaveyour check at the Kennard desk. Or would you prefer payment to yourbusiness headquarters?"
Jeff held his breath inwardly, but answered quite casually, "It doesn'tmatter."
"We'll leave it at the Kennard," Mr. Calworth decided. "What should thetotal be?"
Jeff made a swift mental calculation. Barr Whitney's two knives fortwenty dollars each, one almost as good for fifteen, two for ten andthree for five dollars each. Pete's horsehide thong for four dollars andthe three hatchets at five dollars each. That less thirty per cent. Jeffgave the total, "Seventy-six dollars and thirty cents."
"Good!" Jeff knew that this keen man would examine each article and seeif the price was suitable. "Are you going back to the Kennard?"
"I must stop in for a few minutes."
"May I send someone along to pick up the rest of the things?"
"Certainly."
"Fine! Don't forget us, Mr. Tarrant."
Jeff walked back
to the Kennard with one of Ryerson's clerks, gave himthe merchandise intended for him in the lobby and got a receipt. Then hereturned to his room, looked over the motley collection of knives thatremained, and decided that he could sell or trade them to his advantage.But he wanted to take care of some of the other articles first and thengive special attention to Granny's tapestries. He examined the pistoland the set of miniatures. Both were unknown quantities.
About a foot long, the pistol had a metal barrel and ivory handles thathad faded to a soft yellow. On each handle was an elaborate boar's head.Nat Stancer, who had traded Jeff the pistol for two screwdrivers, hadkept it in good working order. Jeff did not know how much it was worth,but certainly it would be of use only to a hill man or to someoneinterested in antiques.
The miniatures were small but well carved and proportioned, and all ofthem consisted of deer in various stages and poses. There were a doe andfawn, a running buck, a lone fawn, three grazing does, a resting buckand a doe rearing. They had cost Jeff a yard each of red, blue andyellow ribbon, but the woman who had traded them had not done thecarving. The miniatures were also old and Jeff thought they had probablybeen fashioned by some invalid with nothing else to do.
The pistol in one side pocket and the miniatures in another, Jeff setout to visit the antique dealers whose names and addresses he hadlisted. With no experience in antiques, he had only a vague idea as tohow to go about selling his, so he took the dealers in alphabeticalorder and the first name on his list was Joseph Barnerson.
He entered the store, a narrow building sandwiched between two largerones, and looked curiously at the objects surrounding him. Jeffrecognized few and wanted none, but looking at them strengthened his ownconviction that, no matter what the article might be, it was desirableto somebody. Jeff turned toward the man who came to meet him. He hadhalf expected somebody old and creaking, but this man was only aboutthirty and far from decrepit.
"What may I do for you?"
"I have an old pistol," Jeff said, "and maybe I'd sell it if I got theright price."
The man smiled. "Mister, I sell antiques. I do not buy them."
"You don't? Where do you get your stock then?"
The smile became a grin. "I get my merchandise in my own way. Let me seeyour pistol."
Jeff handed it over. The man examined it closely and finally said,"They're a drug on the market. I'll give you fifty cents."
"In that case, wrap up six for me. I'll give you three dollars for 'em."
"Where would I get six?"
"You said they're a drug on the market."
"So," the man admitted, "are most other antiques. Their value depends onhow badly somebody wants them. Find somebody who wants the pistol andyou'll get a fair price. To somebody who doesn't want it, it isn't wortha penny."
"That makes sense."
"What are you going to do now?"
"Find somebody who wants it."
But, though Jeff visited other dealers in antiques, none offered himmore than a dollar for the pistol and nobody offered anything for theminiatures. It was very late when he returned to the Kennard.