CHAPTER VI
THE IRON RING
Cordie’s description of James proved quite true. An intriguing figure was this James; a stalwart man of forty, a straight, square-shouldered six-footer, with face as brown as a coffee bean. He was unmistakably American, yet he seemed oddly out of place as, with arms piled high with bundles, he moved steadily through the crowd. There was a certain directness, and with all that a slight roll about his walk, that suggested some sort of sea craft. He was not unlike some port-to-port steamer, waiting at dock for its load, then steaming away to the port of discharge.
“A silent man, and one who has been accustomed to command, not to plod,” was Lucile’s mental comment. “He’s not accustomed to being called James, like a chauffeur or a butler. You can see that by the twinkle in the corner of his eye when someone calls him by that name. I wonder what could have brought him to the extremity of carrying bundles for twenty dollars a week. I’m sure he doesn’t drink to excess. His face would show it if he did. Oh well, that’s Cordie’s little mystery. Let her fathom it when the opportunity comes.”
Cordie’s opportunity came a little later, and in a decidedly startling manner.
In the meantime this was another busy afternoon; one of the busiest of the season.
“Only listen to them!” Lucile said to Cordie as she waited for a parcel. “Most of them are women trying to select books for boys and girls. Not one in ten really knows what she wants or what boys and girls read these days. Listen—”
Cordie listened as she worked, and this, from a score of pairs of lips, is what she heard: “Have you got the Alger books?” “Do you keep Peck’s Bad Boy? That’s such a splendid story. Don’t you think so?” “I want a—a book for a boy fourteen years old. What can you recommend?” “Have you the Elsie books? Those are such sweet stories!” “I want a book for a boy twelve years old. I don’t want anything trashy, though. Which of these fifty-cent books would you recommend?” “Is this a good book?”
“The answer,” whispered Lucile with a little giggle, “the answer, if they say ‘Is this a good book?’ is always ‘Yes.’ Always yes, whether you think so or not. I’ll tell you why. Nine times out of ten, when a woman customer says ‘Is this a good book?’ she has already made up her mind that it is a good book. If you say ‘Yes’ she’ll smile and buy it. If you say ‘No,’ she’ll frown and buy it anyway. So why provoke a frown, and Christmas only two weeks away?”
Only her untiring good nature and her native sense of humor, kept Lucile on her feet and going. There were times, however, when even these deserted her. One of those unfortunate moments arrived this very afternoon. A particularly unpleasant customer had said to her: “I want a book about a boy who was brought up by the monks.” After suggesting everything that seemed akin to this, she happened upon “Tarzan.” “Oh yes!” exclaimed the customer, “That’s it. Tarzan.”
A second customer wanted “Laddie.” When the modern “Laddie” was produced, the customer insisted that this was not the original “Laddie,” but a cheap substitute; that the first “Laddie” was written years ago by a person who’s name she did not recall, but who had written another book called something else. She had insisted on Lucile’s asking everyone in the section about it and, after leaving very warm and unhappy, reappeared ten minutes later with another clerk, still looking for the original “Laddie.”