“How?” Petite Jeanne asked.
“How? Look at this. Here is one I purchased some time ago.” He swung a large, strongly built wardrobe trunk about, threw it open and produced a bundle of letters. “This,” he explained, “is a young man. These letters are from his mother. And these,” he produced another packet, “are from other women. Still others are from his pals. They tell his story. And what a story! Bright, well educated, from a good family. But oh, such a rotter! He betrays his employer, his sweetheart, his pals. He deludes his trusting mother. And, how he lies to her!
“It is all written here.” He patted the letters.
“I had a letter from him yesterday,” he continued. “He wants the trunk; says it is a treasure and an heirloom; wants the contents, too; says sentiment makes him treasure these things. Sentiment!” He fairly stormed. “He knows but one emotion! He loves; ah yes, he loves himself supremely! He has not a redeeming trait.
“He wants this trunk because he is afraid. Afraid of me!” His laugh was bitter. “Me! I never hurt a flea. I only wish I could; that I were hard and ruthless as some men are, stamping their way through, trampling over others to fortune!
“But he shall pay,” he went on more calmly after a moment. “I mean to charge him twenty dollars.
“Then,” he smiled, “I shall return this one to its owners free.” He placed a hand on a sturdy little army locker. “This one belongs to a little family. How many trunks do! Father, mother and the little ones, all their clothes in one trunk! And then lost!
“There should be a society for the return of lost baggage to poor people.
“There are many like these. People come to a strange city for work. There is no work. They leave their trunks in the depot. Storage piles up. They cannot pay.
“But this must bore you!”