The Postmaster Part 23

"You don't see where we come in, hey?" he says. "Well, I do. A dinin'-room like that one of his will need a good many supplies, won't it? And, if I can mesmerize him into patronizin' the home market, the Ostable Grocery, Dry Goods, Boots and Shoes and Fancy Goods Emporium will gain some, I shouldn't wonder. Hey, pard! How about that?" And he slapped my shoulder again.

I turned this over in my mind. "Humph!" I says. "I begin to see."

"You bet you do!" he says, laughin'. "The amount of stuff I can sell that restaurant will-"

But I broke in here. I remembered that wink and I didn't believe I was clear of the choppin'-block yet.

"Hold on!" says I. "Heave to! And never mind poundin' my starboard shoulder to pieces, either. I said I _begun_ to see; I don't see clear yet. How did you and he come to get together in the fust place? Did you go and hunt him up? or did he come in here to see you?"

He kind of hesitated. "Why," he says, "he come into the store, and-"

"Did he happen in, or did he come to see you a-purpose?"

"He-I believe he came to see me. Then he and I-"

"Heave to again! He didn't come to see you to beg the favor of buyin'

goods of you, 'tain't likely. Jim Jacobs, answer me straight. There's somethin' else. That feller wants somethin' of you-or of us. Now what is it?"

He hesitated some more. Then he upset the woodpile and let out the darky.

"Well," he says, "I'll tell you. I was goin' to tell you, anyway.

Frank's all right. He's got a good idea and he's got the experience to put it into practice; but he's somethin' the way old Beanblossom was afore you took a share in this store-he needs a little more capital."

I swung round on the settee and looked him square in the eye.

"I-see," I says, slow. "Now-I see! He's after money and he wants us to lend it to him. I might have guessed it. Well, did you say no right off?

or was you waitin' to have me say it? You might have said it yourself.

You knew I'd back you up."

Would you believe it? he got as red as a beet.

"I didn't say anything," he says. "Don't go off half-c.o.c.ked like that.

What's the matter with you this mornin'? He don't want to borrer money.

He wants more capital in the proposition-wants to float it right. And he's been inquirin' around and has found that you and me are the two leadin' business men in the place and has come to us first. It's more a favor on his part than anything else. He offers to let us have a third interest between us; you put in a thousand and I do the same. Why, man, it's a cinch! It's a chance that don't come every day. As I told you, I've had the same notion in my head for a long time. A summer dinin'-room like that in this town is-"

"Wait!" I interrupted. "What do you know about this Frank critter?

Where'd he come from? Who is he?"

"He comes from Pittsburg. That's the last place he was in. And he's got his pockets full of references and testimonials."

"Humph! Anybody can get testimonials. Write 'em himself, if there wa'n't any other way. I had a second mate once with more testimonials than s.h.i.+rts, enough sight, and he-"

"Oh, cut it out! Besides, I don't care where he comes from. He's sharp as a steel trap; that much I can tell with one eye shut. And he's run dinin'-rooms and hotels; that I'll bet my hat on. That's all we need to know. A road-house in this town is a twenty per cent proposition durin'

the summer months. It's the chance of a lifetime, I tell you."

"Maybe so. But how do you know the feller's honest?"

"I don't care whether he's honest or not. It doesn't make any difference. If I wa'n't here to keep my eye peeled, it might be; but I'll be here and if he gets ahead of me, he'll be movin' to some extent.

Someone else'll grab the chance if we don't. I'm for it. What do you say?"

I shook my head. "Jim," says I, "I can see where you stand. You're so dead sartin that an eatin'-house of that kind'll pay big, that you're blind to the rest of it. Now I don't pretend to be a judge of human nature like you-leavin' out Injun and Rosenstein human nature, of course-nor a doctor of sick businesses, which is your profession. But my experience is-"

He stood up and sniffed impatient.

"Cut it out, I tell you!" he says, again. "This ain't an experience meetin'. Will you take a flyer with me in that road-house, or won't you?"

"Way I feel now, I won't," says I, prompt.

He turned on his heel, took a step towards the door and then stopped.

"Well," he says, "you think it over till to-morrer mornin' and then let me know. Only, you mark my words, it's a chance. And, with me to keep my eye on it, there's no risk at all."

So that's the way it ended that day. And half that night I laid awake, feelin' meaner'n dirt to say no to as good a partner as I had, and yet pretty average sure I was right, just the same.

In the mornin' my mind was still betwixt and between. I went down to the store and walked back to the post-office department. I looked in through the little window and saw Mary Blaisdell inside, sortin' the outgoin'

letters. The suns.h.i.+ne, streamin' in from outside, lit up her hair till it looked like one of them halos in a church picture. Seems to me I never saw her look prettier; but then, every time I saw her I thought the same thing. A good-lookin' woman and a good woman-yes, and capable.

That she'd lived so many years without gettin' married, was one of the things that made a feller lose confidence in the good-sense of humans.

The chap that got her would be lucky. Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the lookin'-gla.s.s where customers tried on hats, and decided I'd better stop thinkin' foolishness or somebody would catch me at it and send me to the comic papers.

"Mornin', Mary," says I. "Has Mr. Jacobs come aboard yet?"

She turned and came to her side of the window.

"Yes," she says, "he was here. He's gone out now with that Mr. Frank. I believe they've gone up to the old Higgins Place."

"Um-hm," says I. "Well, Mary, just between friends, I'd like to ask you somethin'. Do you like that Frank man's looks?"

She wa'n't expectin' that and she didn't know how to answer for a jiffy.

Then she kind of half laughed, and says: "No, Cap'n Zeb, since you ask me, I-I don't. I don't like him. And I haven't any good reason, either."

I nodded. "Much obliged, Mary," says I. "And, since you ain't asked me, I'll tell you that _I_ don't like him. And my reason's about as good as yours. Maybe it's his clothes. A man, 'cordin' to my notion, has a right to look like a horse jockey, if he wants to; and he's got a right to look like an undertaker. But when he looks like a combination of the two, I-well, I get skittish and begin to shy, that's all. It's too much as if he was baited to trap you dead or alive."

Then Jim Henry come in and when, an hour or so later, he got me one side and asked me if I'd made up my mind about investin' in Frank's road-house, I answered prompt that my mind was made up and the answer was still no. He was disapp'inted, I could see that, and pretty mad.

"Humph!" says he. "Skipper, you're all right except for one fault-you're as 'country' as they make 'em, and they make 'em pretty narrer sometimes. Well, you've had the chance. Don't ever tell me you haven't."

"I won't," says I, and we didn't mention the subject for a long time.

Then-but that comes later. However, I judged that Frank had found folks in Ostable who wa'n't as narrer and "country" as I was, for, inside of a week, the carpenters was busy on the Higgins Place. They built on great, wide piazzas; they knocked out part.i.tions between rooms; they made the house pretty much over. In March loads of fancy furniture came from Boston. At last a windmill three feet high-made to look like a little copy of the old Cape windmills our great-granddads used to grind grist in, with sails that turned-was set up in the front yard, and on a post by the big gate was swingin' a fancy notice board, with a gilt windmill painted on that, and the words in big letters:

THE SIGN OF THE WINDMILL.

MEALS AT ALL HOURS.

_Steaks, Chops, Game, Etc._ _Table D'hote Dinner Each Day at 1.15._

_Special Accommodations for Auto Parties._

That was it, you see. "The Sign of the Windmill" was the name of the new road-house.