“Lady, it is decidedly unsafe to trundle your baby about in that rickety carriage,” is the greeting of the vender of rubber tires for perambulators.
After convincing a startled mother that she has been carelessly subjecting her child to terrible danger from capsizing, the crafty salesman swoops down upon the carriage, tacks on a set of new tires, tinkers up a rickety spoke, slaps a cracked hub together and goes on his way with a merry quarter in his jeans. It’s another odd job.
Take the industrious sellers of keys. They come up to your tenement home, knock at the door and ask whether you need a new key to the chateau. If you have just lost your last key the keyhole genius stoops down, twiddles around with a blank key and some beeswax, files a couple of notches in the blank, and presto—you have a shining new key all for ten cents. A locksmith would take two days and charge you a quarter.
[Pg 237]
Precisely speaking, the man with the camera cannot be included in this list of people who make a living out of curious jobs. Most folks have seen him anchored on a bright corner of a Sunday afternoon taking the pictures of one and all for the small sum of 10 cents.
When you have on your best bib and tucker you strike a dignified pose, with your smaller sister leaning against you, and in two jerks of a lamb’s tail your likeness is slipped upon the post card, which is kept forever after in the family album, where in years to come you gaze upon it and wonder how two such spindly legs supported such a large child.
The man with the telescope doesn’t make a handsome income, and he usually looks unhappy and ill at ease, but for a nickel he will show you the ridges in the moon and the canals on Mars, and if the bulbous top piece of the Metropolitan tower gets in the way it’s your own fault and your nickel is lost.
Next comes what is in reality a woman’s calling, but strangely enough it is followed by a large man with an extremely red face and a stubby mustache. Children must like him because his business is checking them while bargain seeking mammas thread their ways through the aisles of stores.
He stands at the head of a line of baby carriages, soothing his round faced charges and waving a tinkling strapful of ragged edged checks. Upon delivery to him of the check which he gave you when you entered the store you may receive again your baby. No check, no baby, just as in the Chink’s place.
You mightn’t think that a man could eke out an existence selling catnip. One does, though. He stands at an uptown corner with a basketful of cat’s delight, selling it for two cents a bunch, and the old maids in the vicinity make daily trips to his corner. When you’re inclined to growl about your present salary, think of the man selling catnip for two cents a bunch.