I understood what he meant then. Every summer for the last year or two the Cape has been sufferin' from a plague of fellers peddlin' handmade lace, and embroidery, and such. They're all shades of color except white, and they talk all sorts of languages except plain United States; but, no matter what they look like or how they jabber, every last one of them claims to be an Armenian, and to have his hand satchel solid full of native-made tidies, and tablecloths, and the like of that. I never run across the Armenian flag on any of my v'yages, but if it ain't a doily, then it ought to be.
And the prices they charge! Whew! A white man would blush every time he named one; but these fellers, bein' all complexions, from light tan Oxford to dark rubber boot, are born to blush unseen, and can charge four dollars for a crocheted necktie and never crack, spot, nor fade.
Jim Henry was some on high prices himself; likewise, he considered the summer cottagers and the hotel folks as more or less our special property. Therefore, you can understand how this Armenian competition riled and disturbed him. And, as it turned out, that very mornin' he'd gone to call on Mrs. Burke Smythe, who was one of the Ostable Store's best and most well-off customers, and found her ankle-deep in lamp mats and centerpieces which an Armenian specimen was diggin' out of a couple of suit cases. And she'd told him that she couldn't pay our bill for another month 'count of havin' spent all her "household allowance" on the "loveliest set of embroidered dress and waist patterns" and such that ever was. There was the dress pattern. Didn't he think it was a "dear"?
Well, Jim Henry give in to the "dear" part—she'd paid sixty-four dollars for it—and come away disgusted. These peddlers was takin' the coin right out of our mouths, he vowed. What was we goin' to do about it?
"Keep our mouths shut, I guess," says I. "I can't see anything else."
But that wouldn't do for him. He went away growlin', and for the next couple of days he hardly said a word. I knew he was hatchin' some scheme or other, and I took care not to scare him off the nest. The third mornin', he came off himself, fetchin' his brood with him.
"Skipper," says he, joyful, "I believe I've got it. I believe I've got the idea that'll put those Armenians in the discard. You listen to me."
I listened, and what he'd hatched was somethin' like this: We—that is, the "Ostable Grocery, Dry Goods, Boots and Shoes, and Fancy Goods Store"—would sell embroidery and crocheted plunder, and run the peddlers out of business. We'd open a tidy department on our own hook. What did I think of that?
Well, I didn't think much of it, and I told him so.
"Don't believe we can do it," says I.