“Yes, may I help you?” For a moment Peggy almost thought the owl had spoken, but then she saw a little splinter of a man, so fragile and old that it seemed as if he might break into a thousand pieces at any moment.
“Oh dear!” Peggy thought. “He’s so old, and probably can’t hear very well, and won’t know what I’m talking about!” But she had to begin somewhere.
“Why, yes,” she said, speaking clearly in hopes he could hear. “I’m Peggy Lane from the Kenabeek Summer Theater, and we hoped you might be able to help us. We’re doing a Victorian play next week—Angel Street—and we thought you might have some furniture or decoration we could use on our set....” Peggy stopped lamely while the old man just smiled and said nothing. Obviously, he hadn’t understood a word.
“We couldn’t pay you for them, of course,” she rushed on, determined to finish at any rate. “But if you’d be interested, we’d give you a good credit in our programs, and that’s free advertising for you, you know.”
Peggy felt bumbling and awkward, at a loss for words. Well, there was only one thing left to say. She would finish and leave quickly. “We would take very good care of whatever you lent us,” she mumbled faintly—it didn’t matter, he couldn’t hear anyway. “Well, I’ve certainly made a mess of this,” Peggy thought. “They should have sent somebody who knows the old man and how to talk to him!”
“Ah, yes. Angel Street is an excellent play!” Peggy could hardly believe her ears as the old man spoke. “Quite a thriller, yes, indeed. I made a special trip to New York to see that play once—type of thing I like. I was waiting for you to say something about taking care of anything I might lend you,” he went on. “You see, some of my things here are quite valuable and I would have to be sure they were in responsible hands.”
“Oh, of course,” Peggy said eagerly.
“If you hadn’t mentioned that, I might not have said anything at all! Might have let you leave thinking I was deaf as a stone!” He cocked his head humorously on one side, giving Peggy a wink that reminded her of the wise old owl.
“I’m Mr. Bladen,” the old man said as he came out from behind the counter and threaded his way among the piles of stuff on the floor, crooking a finger for Peggy to follow. There was hardly room to squeeze through, but she valiantly held her breath and went sideways, picking her way carefully around the vases, picture frames, statues, tables, and chairs.
“Been here forty years,” he added, leading her over to one wall under a window. He drew back the curtains and a dust cloud rose as he pinned them back to get some light. Peggy sneezed. “Gesundheit!” Mr. Bladen said.