even to merry, who had never before visited her friends on peoria street just off maxwell street, the shop of weston was something of a shock. it was nothing more than a hollow shell of a building with a great heap of second-hand goods of all sorts piled in one corner. not a shelf, counter or table adorned this bleak interior. the plaster was cracked, the walls threatening to fall.
“i sell all in the street,” he explained in answer to their looks of astonishment. with a wave of his hand he indicated rough board counters where a miscellaneous assortment of human beings were pawing over a stock in trade as varied as themselves.
now and again one would hold up an article in one hand, a coin in the other, and a bargain was speedily made.
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“i don’t see how he lives,” petite jeanne whispered.
“he’s been doing this for twenty years, and he’s not bankrupt yet,” merry whispered back.
they were led next to the shop of kay king. this boasted of some little magnificence. there were shelves and tables and one glass showcase. since his principal stock was composed of second-hand books, the wall was lined with them.
“a curious place for a book store, this maxwell street,” dan baker mused.
“i don’t do so badly,” kay king smiled. “the poor wish to read. and here for a nickel, a dime, a quarter, i sell them a lamp to their feet, a light to their pathway.”
“truly a missionary enterprise in a city wilderness,” the gentle old man murmured.
as for petite jeanne, her eyes had roamed up and down the dusty rows of books and had come to rest at last upon a badly hung pair of portieres at the back of the room.
“that,” she told herself, “is where he sleeps when the day is done, a dark and dingy hole.
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“and yet,” she mused, “who can help admiring him? here in his dingy little world he is master of his own destiny. while others who sell books march down each morning to punch a clock and remain bowing and scraping, saying ‘yes mam’ this and ‘yes mam’ that to females who think themselves superior beings, he moves happily among his own books selling when and as he chooses.”
her reflections were broken off by a word from kay king himself.
“there’s a story in every one.” he nodded toward the row of trunks and bags they had come to inspect.
“little does one dream as he packs his trunk for a journey that he may never see that trunk again. sad as it may seem, this is often the case.
“so, all unconscious of curious prying eyes, we tuck the very stories of our lives away in our trunks and watch them go speeding away in a motor van.”
“how?” petite jeanne asked.
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“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.
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“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!”
“no, no! please go on.”
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“there is not much more to tell. see!” he lifted the lid of the trunk. “everything is spotlessly clean. a man’s shirts, a woman’s house dresses, little frocks and rompers for two tiny girls. poor folks they are, like you and me. he was a soldier, too. there is a sharp-shooter’s medal on a pin cushion. there’s a child’s birth certificate, a doll with its nose kissed white, and a small bible. they lost all that.
“and i—i shall send it back.”
“they will pay you,” said petite jeanne.
“they will not pay. they cannot. some are always poor. these are like that.
“but this one—” his lips curled in sudden scorn. “this big boy who goes strutting through the world, he shall pay, and i shall pass it on to these who need and perhaps deserve it.
“but i am keeping you here!” he cried. “here are the trunks we have saved for your own eyes. you will see that weston has spoken truthfully. they are filled for the most part with junk. but now and then there is a story, a real story of some romantic life. see, this one opens easily. i have found a key for it.”
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“wait!” on jeanne’s face was a look almost of distress. “you have told me so much. it seems so cruel that we should pry into their lives. it—it’s like coming upon people in the dark. i—i’m afraid. i—”
“oh, come!” he laughed. “it’s not half as bad as that. probably we won’t come upon anything of interest at all. indeed that’s almost sure to be the case, and i am inclined to repent inviting you here.” so saying, he lifted the lid of the first of the row of trunks, and the show began.
