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Trading Jeff and His Dog

<h2>9. MIGHTY MISSION</h2> In his room at the Kennard, Jeff slept late. The past four days had been busy ones, and more than a little hectic, and he was tired. Mr. Calworth himself had brought back three of the cheapest knives. Admittedly they were worth five dollars each, but they were not merchandise that Ryerson could sell to its more exacting customers. If they were to pay premium prices, they demanded premium quality and Ryerson had better knives in stock that they sold for four dollars and a half. However, Mr. Calworth had softened their return by taking the fringed hunting shirt, the four pairs of moccasins and the polished hunting horn, and privately Jeff kicked himself for failing to offer them in the first place. They had brought thirty-eight dollars and Ryerson's would take all Jeff could supply if the quality remained as good. The pistol was also gone. Failing to sell it to anyone at the price he wanted to get, Jeff had carelessly left it on his dresser. The maid who tidied up the room had found it, decided that only a desperate outlaw would use such a thing and taken to it the clerk. Unable to resolve a situation so grave, and unwilling to take the responsibility, the clerk had consulted the manager and the manager had come to see Jeff. He apologized for his employees but thought that they had been well intentioned. He also recognized the pistol and it just so happened that his hobby was collecting antique fire arms. If Jeff cared to sell the pistol—Jeff did, for fifteen dollars. Jeff had tramped the streets, going from store to store and bartering. It had taken time. But bit by bit he had rid himself of almost everything he had brought to Ackerton and stocked his pack with items the hill people favored. None of it had cost Jeff any money and, in addition to all expenses, he had a clear profit of almost a hundred dollars. Under ordinary circumstances that would have been excellent. But these circumstances were not ordinary. He had been unable to find a buyer for either the miniatures or Granny Wilson's tapestries. Though it revolted his peddler's instincts to do so, he was willing to keep the miniatures if it took too much time to sell them. Not only did he refuse to do so with Granny's tapestries, but he was determined to settle for nothing less than the price he had assured Granny he could get. However, at least for the moment, he had reached a stalemate. Jeff had visited every store that seemed to have a wealthy trade. But the most expensive tapestry he had been shown cost twelve dollars and fifty cents and he hadn't even bothered to show Granny's. Jeff turned over, opened his eyes, sat up, yawned and occupied his mind with the problems of the day. The smile remained on his lips and his eyes retained their sparkle. The fact that he had had no success with the tapestries proved only that he had not yet offered them to the right person. They were a challenge, and it was a challenge to which he could rise. If he had permitted himself to be discouraged by every small setback, he would have stopped peddling long ago. He dressed, breakfasted and lingered over his plate to ponder the problem of the tapestries. Naturally one did not walk up to any stranger, ask him if he needed an expensive tapestry and proceed to sell him one. But there had to be a way because there was always a way. What way? Jeff tried his best to come up with an answer and couldn't do it. He still had no intention of leaving Ackerton until the tapestries were sold. Jeff fell back on the idea that first things must be first and he still had more to do in Ackerton. Maybe something would occur to him while he was doing it. He went to his room, referred to the directory, found the Jackson School for Boys, noted its address on a slip of paper and tucked one of Granny's tapestries, The Last Supper, under his arm before he left the hotel. Far from doing so only once, Opportunity was always knocking, and Jeff thought that many people missed her visit only because they were unprepared when she was all but hammering the door from its hinges. Jeff took a taxi across town. There were trolleys, but he hadn't acquainted himself with their schedules and, besides, taxis were faster. Now that time was a factor—he wanted to finish his business and return to Smithville—he could not afford to loiter. Jeff looked interestedly at the section of the city they were entering. Downtown Ackerton was crowded, with land so precious that there was no room for any space at all between buildings. Even the more modest residential areas had houses close together and a bit of yard in front and back. This must be where the wealthy element lived. The houses were large and set back from the streets. By Ackerton standards, the lawns were very spacious, though all of them together wouldn't have offered a hill dweller as much room as he needed. They came to an area where there were no residences at all but only a few business places, and Jeff had a fleeting glimpse of one that interested him. The display windows were clear, but drapes hung behind them and Jeff thought he saw a tapestry displayed. He memorized the name; the Murchison Galleries. The cabbie turned aside into a paved drive and halted his taxi beside a large building that had a distinct air of gentility. The taxi stopped and Jeff looked puzzled. "I wanted the Jackson School." "This is it." Jeff paid the driver, got out and looked around. Obviously a converted mansion, the Jackson School had none of the aloofness of the mansions they had passed. Surrounded by green lawns and flower gardens, there was the same strong sense of being welcome that was so evident on Granny Wilson's hill. Jeff whistled. Johnny Blazer, who had lived in a cabin behind Smithville, hadn't stinted himself when he chose a school for his son. Jeff knew a little misgiving. It was his intention to see Dan back here when the school term opened. But could he afford it? "Might as well find out," he murmured to himself. Inside the main entrance, a pleasant girl looked up from a desk upon which was a typewriter, an inkwell with a tray of pens and a few papers. She smiled at Jeff. "Yes?" "I'd like to see—" Jeff tried and could not think of the titles given officials in private schools for boys. He grinned. "I'd like to discuss a youngster who probably would be in the sixth grade." "Is he a student here?" "Yes." "I'll call Mr. Nelson. Will you be seated, please?" She talked into a speaking tube. Jeff seated himself on a comfortable divan, and as soon as he saw him, he approved of the man who came in. About fifty years old, he was short and inclined to stoutness. He wore a gray suit that fitted well and had been chosen with care. His face was flushed and his hair iron-gray. But the blue eyes that set his face off were gentle, understanding and wise. Jeff rose to meet him. "Mr. Nelson?" "Yes sir." His voice was soft and pleasant. "My name's Jeff Tarrant," Jeff introduced himself. "I've come to talk to you about Dan Blazer." Alert interest flooded the headmaster's face. "Oh, yes. Do you know where he is?" "Yes. Let me tell you." Mr. Nelson listened attentively while Jeff spoke of finding Dan in Johnny Blazer's cabin. Jeff told of Dan's fierce anger, and his unshakable determination to seek out whoever had killed his father and extract full vengeance. He spoke of his own part in it and of the paper-loaded shotgun shells. Jeff did not try to conceal the fact that he was a peddler, nor did he hide Dan's interest in peddling. He told of his own hopes to find Johnny's murderer, let the law take its course, and of the effect he thought that would have on Dan. For a moment after he finished, Mr. Nelson did not speak. Then he asked, "Where is the boy now?" "I left him in very good hands. He will lack for nothing." Mr. Nelson looked troubled. "What do you intend to do with him, Mr. Tarrant?" "If I can afford it, I want to bring him back here when the fall term opens." Mr. Nelson smiled gently. "Mr. Tarrant, when you looked up the Jackson School for Boys, I'm sure you saw nothing about our being restricted to wealthy boys only. We do have students, and I'll admit that they are of exceptional ability, who pay whatever their parents or guardians can afford." "Where does Dan rate in that category?" "Very highly. Very highly I assure you. An outstanding youngster, but your revelations were not a complete surprise." "You expected him to run away?" "I took him to his father's funeral," Mr. Nelson said softly. "He said little, but I knew what he was thinking. After he ran away, I wrote to the authorities in Smithville, but I've had no reply." "That's my fault," Jeff admitted. "I told them that Dan was under my care and that I'd contact you personally." "You did? By any chance did you have ideas about looking us over?" "I had that idea. And I had no intention of letting him come back if you did not measure up." "Oh! We do meet your standards?" Jeff smiled. "You're good enough." "You might have brought Dan with you." "I might also have put him in a cage," Jeff said wryly. "And if I kept him there for one, three, or ten years, he'd get out some time. When he did, he'd still go back and hunt whoever shot his father." "How old are you, Mr. Tarrant?" "Going on nineteen." "Would it be impertinent to ask your background?" Jeff said quietly, "I lived in an orphanage until I was a little past fourteen. Then I ran away and worked at various jobs. Since quitting the last one, I've been a peddler." "I see. And what do you hope to gain by sending this youngster back to us?" Jeff still spoke quietly. "Sleep, easy sleep at night because I did not leave him alone when he had no one else to whom he could turn." "What does Dan think about it?" "I haven't told him," Jeff grinned, "but I have a pact with him. Dan has agreed to do anything I say." "Why?" "He likes peddling, and he has an idea that he's going to throw in with me. I told him he couldn't unless he minded me." "What are your plans for the future?" "I haven't decided," Jeff said seriously. "But I like Smithville, and if things continue to get as well as they've started out, in the next three or four years I'll be able to build up a good business right in Smithville." "I see. Do you have any ideas about Dan's 'throwing in' with you?" "Yes I do," Jeff confessed. "I like him and I'd like to have him; Tarrant and Blazer would be a mighty good team. But first he must have an education." "Why?" "So he'll know what I have never learned. I read as much as I can, but that's not as good as solid groundwork in school." "If you pay for his education, would you insist on his later services?" "No, he can choose his own way." "You're willing to be responsible for him on such a basis?" "Yes, sir. Wh—what is your tuition fee?" "Mr. Blazer paid—" Mr. Nelson named half the sum Jeff had expected. "What do you wish to have me do?" "I want only your written confirmation that Dan is in my care." "May I also say that you are to return him to us by September fourteenth?" "Certainly." "All right. Miss Jackson, may I borrow your desk?" The confirming letter in an inside pocket, Jeff strode happily out of the school. It had all been much simpler than he had thought possible, but Mr. Nelson was an understanding person. Jeff knew that he himself had undergone one of the most severe examinations of his life—and had passed it. Relieved about Dan, he could now give his whole attention to the business at hand. It was a long way to the Kennard, but Jeff did not want to hail or phone for a taxi as yet because the neighborhood, and the stores he had seen, interested him. He walked back the way he had come, saw the stores ahead, and halted in front of the Murchison Galleries. He wanted to assure himself that he had seen what he thought he had seen, and it was there. In the window, somehow accentuated by the very simplicity of its surroundings, was a tapestry that depicted a bowl of crocuses in bloom. Though he did not know a great deal about tapestries, Jeff realized that this was a very fine one. But mentally he compared it to Granny's, and decided that hers was better. Jeff entered the galleries. Though only fair-sized, the arrangement of the interior loaned an illusion of spaciousness and its air was one of quiet refinement. There were paintings on the walls and others on easels, and without examining them too closely, Jeff knew that the way they were placed added much to their effectiveness. He turned to meet the man coming toward him and was greeted with a pleasant, "Good morning." He said it as though he were welcoming a guest into his house, and Jeff responded in kind. "Good morning. I think you may save my life!" "Indeed?" The man arched his brows. "You hardly seem on the verge of expiring." "I really am, though. You do know something about tapestries?" "A bit." The man smiled indulgently. "What do you wish?" Jeff unrolled Granny's The Last Supper and held it up for inspection. "I must find the exact duplicate of this." "May I see it?" The man took the tapestry, felt its texture, turned it over and examined it at arm's length. His eyes hardened ever so slightly. Lowering the tapestry, he wrinkled his brow in thought. "Perhaps we may help you, Mr.—" "Tarrant," Jeff supplied. "Jeffrey Tarrant." "I'm Raold Murchison. You wish us to find a duplicate of this?" "If you can," Jeff wanted twenty-five dollars but decided he might as well try for more. "It's worth a hundred dollars." "How soon must you have it, Mr. Tarrant?" "Tomorrow noon's the deadline," Jeff said ruefully. "Just think! I've been in Ackerton almost a week before I found you." "Where are you staying?" "The Kennard. Room sixteen." "May we retain this until tomorrow at noon?" "Of course, naturally you will—" "Naturally. I would not ask you to leave it without a receipt. Will you be at the Kennard at noon?" "I'll make it a point to be there." "I shall phone you then, Mr. Tarrant, and advise you concerning our success or failure." He gave Jeff a receipt and noted his name and room number. Jeff left the galleries, knowing that he had taken a gamble. But who hoped to win had to take chances. With nothing else to do, he gave the rest of the day and most of the next morning to wandering about Ackerton. He returned to his room at twenty to twelve, and exactly twenty minutes later his phone rang. "Mr. Tarrant," it was the desk clerk, "there's a Mr. Murchison here to see you." "Send him in." Jeff opened the door for Raold Murchison, and no matter where he stood, he would still be master of the Murchison Galleries. "I came in person, Mr. Tarrant, because that seemed best." "Indeed?" "Yes, we succeeded in locating the exact duplicate of your tapestry." Jeff gave thanks for his ability to wear a poker face when such was in order. If the Murchison Galleries had located the twin of Granny's The Last Supper, Granny had made it. And Raold Murchison wouldn't even know how to talk to her. Murchison smiled tentatively. "In the process of finding the duplicate, we also found a customer who is enamoured of the pair." "Those things happen." "I assume that you have a customer who will pay you at least two hundred dollars?" Jeff made no comment. It was Murchison's privilege to assume anything he wished. The art dealer continued, "I am prepared to offer you a hundred and twenty-five dollars for yours." Jeff's heart leaped but his face revealed nothing. Obviously, somewhere among his wealthy neighbors, Raold Murchison, just as Jeff had hoped, had known the exact person who would appreciate such a tapestry. Naturally, he would sell it for more than the price offered Jeff, but he was entitled to a profit, too. Hiding his elation, Jeff frowned. "It isn't the price I thought I'd get." "But you cannot sell yours without a duplicate?" Jeff looked away without answering. Murchison waited expectantly. Finally Jeff looked back. "Well, all right," he agreed. "How about taking another tapestry?" Jeff asked. "Oh, you have another?" Jeff showed him The Fall of Satan. Raold Murchison examined it and turned to Jeff. "A fair enough piece and I'll speculate. Shall we say fifty dollars?" "Let's say seventy-five?" "I'm taking a chance but—Will you accept my personal check?" "Certainly." Raold Murchison wrote a check and waved it in the air until it dried. "If you should be in Ackerton again, Mr. Tarrant, the Murchison Galleries are ever ready to be of service." He left and Jeff leaped high to click his heels in the air. He had hoped to get fifty dollars for both tapestries. He had two hundred and a strong hint that more tapestries would be welcome. He fairly danced down to the desk. "When is the next train for Delview?" he asked. The clerk consulted a time table. "Five-three." "Thanks." Jeff ran out on the street and hailed a taxi. "The nearest place where I can buy a kitten," he directed, "and stay with me. I want you all afternoon." "Sure, Bub." Half past four, and five pet shops later, Jeff found what he wanted. Of three white Angora kittens in the window, one was almost the twin of Granny's departed pet. It watched Jeff shyly, and arched its back against his hand. Then it promptly proceeded to bite his finger. Plainly it was a kitten with character. "I want it!" Jeff told the astonished proprietor. "Put it in a cage or something because it's going on the train!" Lifted into a second-hand bird cage, the kitten spat its indignation and fell to swiping at shadows with a silky paw. Jeff laid five dollars, the requested price, on the counter and thrust his hand into the pocket where the miniatures lay. "Present for you," he said, scattering them across the counter. He rushed to the cab. "Hotel Kennard and don't spare the gasoline. I have to be at the station by five-two!" He made it with a whole minute to spare. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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