“Now, that will do, young lady. Will you please answer me this! Why must I always be looked upon as a mild sort of lunatic when I give you an order? ’Twas ever thus! Why, you hooted my first order, and you have kept on hooting every single one since. I wonder I haven’t transferred my patronage long since. Trouble is you realize where you have me cornered. You know I can’t duplicate those candies anywhere. Now come along with me and let us arrange for the new quarters which are to replace the outgrown ones, and—mark my word—this business will never again contract to the old space. This is where my business acumen shows itself. Once I’ve got you into the bigger stand, and the rent into my coffers, I mean to keep you there, even if I have to get out and drum up the extra trade to meet the extra outlay. Co-operation.”
Constance was too accustomed to this good friend’s nonsense to see anything but the deepest interest for her welfare underlying it. She knew that, with all his seeming badinage, he was looking further ahead than she, with her still limited experience, even after four years in her little business world, could look, for her’s, while exceptional for her years and sex, could never match that of this man of the great, active business world. But if Mr. Porter was far-seeing in some directions, in others he was short-sighted, and his range of vision was to be broadened by one who dwelt in a far humbler walk of life—Mammy Blairsdale.
Upon this particular morning Mammy had elected to drive in state to South Riveredge, ostensibly to cast a critical eye over the Blairsdale-Devon Lunch Counter, but in reality to convey to it a very special dainty for her pet customer—Hadyn Stuyvesant.
In addition to a few hundred other side issues to her business, Mammy had raised poultry during the previous summer, and, curiously enough, to every chick hatched out, there had pecked themselves into the world about four roosters, until poor Mammy began to believe her setting eggs must have had a spell cast upon them. As the summer advanced such an array of lordly, strutting, squawking young cocks never dominated a poultry yard, and the sequel was inevitable. When they arrived at the crowing age the neighbors arose in revolt! Such a vociferous, discordant collection of birds had never fought and crowed themselves into public notice. Mammy became almost distracted, and was at her wits’ end until a diplomatic move struck her: those roosters should win not only fame for themselves, but for their owner also; and not long afterward first one neighbor then another was mollified and highly flattered to receive a fine daintily broiled, fried, or roasted young bird, cooked as only Mammy knew how to cook a fowl, garnished as only Mammy knew how to garnish, and accompanied by a respectful note, not written by Mammy, but by Jean, somewhat in this strain:
“Will Mrs. —— please accept this dish with the most respectful compliments of Mammy Blairsdale, who hopes this noisy rooster will never disturb her any more?”
Oh, “sop to Cerberus!” Could diplomacy go further?
It was one of the most vociferous of her flock which now lay upon his lordly back, his legs pathetically turned to the skies, his fighting and his squaking days ended forever, that reposed in Mammy’s warming can, to be transferred to Charles’ warming oven, there to await Hadyn’s arrival.
As Constance and Mr. Porter drew near the lunch counter, Mammy was giving very explicit directions to Charles. Constance and Mr. Porter were too occupied to be aware of her presence; not she of theirs, however.
Mr. Porter conducted Constance to the arch next but one to that in which the lunch counter stood, only separated from it by the cigar stand.
“Now here is a space which you can have as well as not, and it is close enough to Charles for him to cast an eye over it from time to time.”