The merciless years changed the fortunes of the place, and it was now in an atmosphere of decay. It was a gray unpainted two story affair, with a wooden awning over a broad platform in front, along the outer edge of which hung a small squeaky sign:
TIPTON POSEY
GENERAL MERCHANDISE
It was the general loafing place of the old muskrat trappers and pot hunters—known as “river rats,”—and old settlers, whose principal asset was spare time, but everybody for miles around came occasionally to “keep track o’ what’s goin’ on,” and to exchange the gossip of the river country.
Posey, the jovial and philosophic proprietor, who lived upstairs, was a sympathetic member of the motley gatherings. He was utilized in countless ways. He acted as stakeholder and referee when bets were made on disputed matters of fact, delivered verbal messages, and always had the latest news. He was a good natured, ruddy faced old fellow, with an eccentric moustache that curled in at one corner of his mouth, and seemed to be trying to make its escape on the other side. He seldom wore a hat and his gray hair stood up like a flare over his high forehead.
The confused stock of goods included a little of everything that any reasonable human being would want to buy, and lots of things that nobody could ever have any sane use for. Those who were unreasonable could always get what they wanted by waiting a week or two, for “Tip” declared that he would draw upon the resources of the civilized world through the mails, if necessary, to accommodate his customers.
Posey was reliable in everything except regular attendance. He “opened store” spasmodically in the morning, and closed it “whenever they was nobody ’round” at night. When his life-long friend, Bill Stiles, was unavailable as a substitute guardian he often locked up and left a notice on the door indicating when he would return. I once found one reading: “Gone off—back Monday.” It was Wednesday and it had been there since Saturday. Various lead pencil comments had been inscribed on the misleading notice by facetious visitors, among them “Liar!” “What Monday?” “Sober up!” “Stranger called to buy a hundred dollars’ worth of goods and found nobody home.” “The sheriff has been here looking for you twice,” and several other notations calculated to annoy the delinquent. Sometimes the notice would simply read “Gone off,” which, in connection with the fact that the door was locked, was convincing to the most obtuse observer. Tip usually found a fringe of patient customers and assorted loiterers sitting along the edge of the platform, discussing the burning questions of the day, when he returned.
During the shooting seasons he spent much time on the marsh down the river. Orders were stuck under the door, and during his brief and uncertain visits to the store, he filled them and left the goods in a locked wooden box in the rear, to which a few favored customers had duplicate keys.
While Tip’s affairs were not conducted on strictly commercial principles, he had no competition, and eventually did all the business there was to be done. “I git all the money they got, an’ nobody c’d do more’n that if they was here all the time,” he remarked, as he laid his gun and a bunch of bloody ducks on the platform and unlocked the door late one night, after several days’ absence. “I got ’em all trained now an’ they’d be spoiled if I took to bein’ here reg’lar.”
There were two “spare rooms” over the store, that were reached by a stairway on the outside of the building. I usually occupied one of them whenever I visited that part of the river. Bill Stiles slept in the other when he thought it was too dark for him to go home, or he was not in a condition to make the attempt. It was in use most of the time.