“Play what?” asked Gladys.
“Thieves’ Market,” said Nyoda. “You know in Mexico there is an institution known as the Thieves’ Market, where stolen goods are sold to the public. We will not discuss the moral aspect of the business, but I thought we could make a game out of it. Let’s each get a hold of some possession of each one of the others’ without being seen and put a price on it. The price will not be a money value, of course, but a stunt. The owner of the article will have first chance at the stunt and if she fails the thing will go to whoever can buy it. If anyone fails to get a possession from each one of the rest to add to the collection she can’t play, and if she is seen by the owner while ‘stealing’ it she will have to put it back. We’ll hold the Thieves’ Market to-night after supper in the parlor and I’ll be storekeeper.”
The Winnebagos, always on the lookout for something novel and entertaining, seized on the idea with rapture. The rain was forgotten that afternoon as they scurried around the house trying to seize upon articles belonging to the others, and at the same time trying valiantly to guard their own possessions. It was not hard to get Sahwah’s things, for she had a habit of leaving them lying all over the house. Her red hat had fallen a victim the first thing; likewise her shoes and tennis racket. It was harder to get anything away from Nyoda, for she seemed to be Argus eyed; but providentially she was called to the telephone, and while she was talking they made their raid.
When opened, the Thieves’ Market presented such a conglomeration of articles that at first the girls could only stand and wonder how those things had ever been taken away from them without their knowing it, for many of them were possessions which were usually hidden from sight while the owners fondly believed that their existence was unknown. Migwan gave a cry of dismay when she beheld her “Autobiography,” which she was carefully keeping a secret from the rest, out in full view on the table. “How did you ever find it?” she gasped. “It was folded up in my clothes.”
But Migwan’s embarrassment was nothing compared to Nyoda’s when she caught sight of a certain photograph. She blushed scarlet while the girls teased her unmercifully. It was a picture of Sherry, the serenader of the camp the summer before. Until they found the photograph the girls did not know that Nyoda was corresponding with him. And the prices on the various things were the funniest of all. The girls had come down that evening dressed in their middies and bloomers for they had a suspicion that there would be some acrobatic stunts taking place, and it was well that they did. To redeem her hat Sahwah had to stand on her head and to get her bedroom slippers Gladys had to jump through a hoop from a chair. Hinpoha had to wrestle with Nyoda for the possession of her paint box, and the price of Betty’s shoes was to throw them over her shoulder into a basket. At the first throw she knocked a vase off the table, but luckily it did not break, and she was warned that another accident would result in her going shoeless. Migwan tremblingly approached the Autobiography to find out the price. It was “Read one chapter aloud.” “I won’t do it,” said Migwan, flatly.
“Next customer,” cried Nyoda, pounding with her hammer. “For the simple price of reading aloud one chapter I will sell this complete autobiography of a pious life, profusely illustrated by the author.” Sahwah hastened up to “buy” the book, but Migwan headed her off in a hurry and read the first chapter with as good grace as she could, amid the cheers and applause of the other customers. Sahwah made a grimace when she had to polish the shoes of everyone present to get her shoe brush back.
Thus the various articles in the Thieves’ Market were disposed of amid much laughter and merry-making, until there remained but one article, a cold chisel. Nyoda went through the usual formula, offering it for sale, but no one came to claim it. She redoubled her pleas, but with the same result. “For the third and last time I offer this great bargain in a cold chisel for the simple price of jumping over three chairs in succession,” she said, with a flourish. Nobody appeared to be anxious to redeem their property. “Whose is it?” she asked, mystified.
It apparently belonged to no one. “It’s yours, Gladys,” said Sahwah, “I stole it from you.”
“Mine?” asked Gladys, in surprise. “I don’t own any chisel. Where did you get it from?”
“Out of the automobile,” answered Sahwah.