Quail Seed
"The outlook is not encouraging for us smaller businesses," said Mr.Scarrick to the artist and his sister, who had taken rooms over hissuburban grocery store. "These big concerns are offering all sorts ofattractions to the shopping public which we couldn't afford to imitate,even on a small scale--reading-rooms and play-rooms and gramophones andHeaven knows what. People don't care to buy half a pound of sugarnowadays unless they can listen to Harry Lauder and have the latestAustralian cricket scores ticked off before their eyes. With the bigChristmas stock we've got in we ought to keep half a dozen assistantshard at work, but as it is my nephew Jimmy and myself can pretty wellattend to it ourselves. It's a nice stock of goods, too, if I could onlyrun it off in a few weeks time, but there's no chance of that--not unlessthe London line was to get snowed up for a fortnight before Christmas. Idid have a sort of idea of engaging Miss Luffcombe to give recitationsduring afternoons; she made a great hit at the Post Office entertainmentwith her rendering of 'Little Beatrice's Resolve'."
"Anything less likely to make your shop a fashionable shopping centre Ican't imagine," said the artist, with a very genuine shudder; "if I weretrying to decide between the merits of Carlsbad plums and confected figsas a winter dessert it would infuriate me to have my train of thoughtentangled with little Beatrice's resolve to be an Angel of Light or agirl scout. No," he continued, "the desire to get something thrown infor nothing is a ruling passion with the feminine shopper, but you can'tafford to pander effectively to it. Why not appeal to another instinct;which dominates not only the woman shopper but the male shopper--in fact,the entire human race?"
"What is that instinct, sir?" said the grocer.
* * * * *
Mrs. Greyes and Miss Fritten had missed the 2.18 to Town, and as therewas not another train till 3.12 they thought that they might as well maketheir grocery purchases at Scarrick's. It would not be sensational, theyagreed, but it would still be shopping.
For some minutes they had the shop almost to themselves, as far ascustomers were concerned, but while they were debating the respectivevirtues and blemishes of two competing brands of anchovy paste they werestartled by an order, given across the counter, for six pomegranates anda packet of quail seed. Neither commodity was in general demand in thatneighbourhood. Equally unusual was the style and appearance of thecustomer; about sixteen years old, with dark olive skin, large duskyeyes, and think, low-growing, blue-black hair, he might have made hisliving as an artist's model. As a matter of fact he did. The bowl ofbeaten brass that he produced for the reception of his purchases wasdistinctly the most astonishing variation on the string bag or marketingbasket of suburban civilisation that his fellow-shoppers had ever seen.He threw a gold piece, apparently of some exotic currency, across thecounter, and did not seem disposed to wait for any change that might beforthcoming.
"The wine and figs were not paid for yesterday," he said; "keep what isover of the money for our future purchases."
"A very strange-looking boy?" said Mrs. Greyes interrogatively to thegrocer as soon as his customer had left.
"A foreigner, I believe," said Mr. Scarrick, with a shortness that wasentirely out of keeping with his usually communicative manner.
"I wish for a pound and a half of the best coffee you have," said anauthoritative voice a moment or two later. The speaker was a tall,authoritative-looking man of rather outlandish aspect, remarkable amongother things for a full black beard, worn in a style more in vogue inearly Assyria than in a London suburb of the present day.
"Has a dark-faced boy been here buying pomegranates?" he asked suddenly,as the coffee was being weighed out to him.
The two ladies almost jumped on hearing the grocer reply with anunblushing negative.
"We have a few pomegranates in stock," he continued, "but there has beenno demand for them."
"My servant will fetch the coffee as usual," said the purchaser,producing a coin from a wonderful metal-work purse. As an apparentafterthought he fired out the question: "Have you, perhaps, any quailseed?"
"No," said the grocer, without hesitation, "we don't stock it."
"What will he deny next?" asked Mrs. Greyes under her breath. What madeit seem so much worse was the fact that Mr. Scarrick had quite recentlypresided at a lecture on Savonarola.
Turning up the deep astrachan collar of his long coat, the stranger sweptout of the shop, with the air, Miss Fritten afterwards described it, of aSatrap proroguing a Sanhedrim. Whether such a pleasant function everfell to a Satrap's lot she was not quite certain, but the similefaithfully conveyed her meaning to a large circle of acquaintances.
"Don't let's bother about the 3.12," said Mrs. Greyes; "let's go and talkthis over at Laura Lipping's. It's her day."
When the dark-faced boy arrived at the shop next day with his brassmarketing bowl there was quite a fair gathering of customers, most ofwhom seemed to be spinning out their purchasing operations with the airof people who had very little to do with their time. In a voice that washeard all over the shop, perhaps because everybody was intentlylistening, he asked for a pound of honey and a packet of quail seed.
"More quail seed!" said Miss Fritten. "Those quails must be voracious,or else it isn't quail seed at all."
"I believe it's opium, and the bearded man is a detective," said Mrs.Greyes brilliantly.
"I don't," said Laura Lipping; "I'm sure it's something to do with thePortuguese Throne."
"More likely to be a Persian intrigue on behalf of the ex-Shah," saidMiss Fritten; "the bearded man belongs to the Government Party. Thequail-seed is a countersign, of course; Persia is almost next door toPalestine, and quails come into the Old Testament, you know."
"Only as a miracle," said her well-informed younger sister; "I've thoughtall along it was part of a love intrigue."
The boy who had so much interest and speculation centred on him was onthe point of departing with his purchases when he was waylaid by Jimmy,the nephew-apprentice, who, from his post at the cheese and baconcounter, commanded a good view of the street.
"We have some very fine Jaffa oranges," he said hurriedly, pointing to acorner where they were stored, behind a high rampart of biscuit tins.There was evidently more in the remark than met the ear. The boy flew atthe oranges with the enthusiasm of a ferret finding a rabbit family athome after a long day of fruitless subterranean research. Almost at thesame moment the bearded stranger stalked into the shop, and flung anorder for a pound of dates and a tin of the best Smyrna halva across thecounter. The most adventurous housewife in the locality had never heardof halva, but Mr. Scarrick was apparently able to produce the best Smyrnavariety of it without a moment's hesitation.
"We might be living in the Arabian Nights," said Miss Fritten, excitedly.
"Hush! Listen," beseeched Mrs. Greyes.
"Has the dark-faced boy, of whom I spoke yesterday, been here to-day?"asked the stranger.
"We've had rather more people than usual in the shop to-day," said Mr.Scarrick, "but I can't recall a boy such as you describe."
Mrs. Greyes and Miss Fritten looked round triumphantly at their friends.It was, of course, deplorable that any one should treat the truth as anarticle temporarily and excusably out of stock, but they felt gratifiedthat the vivid accounts they had given of Mr. Scarrick's traffic infalsehoods should receive confirmation at first hand.
"I shall never again be able to believe what he tells me about theabsence of colouring matter in the jam," whispered an aunt of Mrs. Greyestragically.
The mysterious stranger took his departure; Laura Lipping distinctly sawa snarl of baffled rage reveal itself behind his heavy moustache andupturned astrachan collar. After a cautious interval the seeker afteroranges emerged from behind the biscuit tins, having apparently failed tofind any individual orange that satisfied his requirements. He, too,took his departure, and the shop was slowly emptied of its parcel andgossip laden customers. It was Emily Yorling's "day", and most of theshoppers made their way to her drawing-room. To go direct from ashopping expedition to a tea party was what was known locally as "livingin a whirl".
Two extra assistants had been engaged for the following afternoon, andtheir services were in brisk demand; the shop was crowded. People boughtand bought, and never seemed to get to the end of their lists. Mr.Scarrick had never had so little difficulty in persuading customers toembark on new experiences in grocery wares. Even those women whosepurchases were of modest proportions dawdled over them as though they hadbrutal, drunken husbands to go home to. The afternoon had draggeduneventfully on, and there was a distinct buzz of unpent excitement whena dark-eyed boy carrying a brass bowl entered the shop. The excitementseemed to have communicated itself to Mr. Scarrick; abruptly deserting alady who was making insincere inquiries about the home life of the Bombayduck, he intercepted the newcomer on his way to the accustomed counterand informed him, amid a deathlike hush, that he had run out of quailseed.
The boy looked nervously round the shop, and turned hesitatingly to go.He was again intercepted, this time by the nephew, who darted out frombehind his counter and said something about a better line of oranges. Theboy's hesitation vanished; he almost scuttled into the obscurity of theorange corner. There was an expectant turn of public attention towardsthe door, and the tall, bearded stranger made a really effectiveentrance. The aunt of Mrs. Greyes declared afterwards that she foundherself sub-consciously repeating "The Assyrian came down like a wolf onthe fold" under her breath, and she was generally believed.
The newcomer, too, was stopped before he reached the counter, but not byMr. Scarrick or his assistant. A heavily veiled lady, whom no one hadhitherto noticed, rose languidly from a seat and greeted him in a clear,penetrating voice.
"Your Excellency does his shopping himself?" she said.
"I order the things myself," he explained; "I find it difficult to makemy servants understand."
In a lower, but still perfectly audible, voice the veiled lady gave him apiece of casual information.
"They have some excellent Jaffa oranges here." Then with a tinklinglaugh she passed out of the shop.
The man glared all round the shop, and then, fixing his eyesinstinctively on the barrier of biscuit tins, demanded loudly of thegrocer: "You have, perhaps, some good Jaffa oranges?"
Every one expected an instant denial on the part of Mr. Scarrick of anysuch possession. Before he could answer, however, the boy had brokenforth from his sanctuary. Holding his empty brass bowl before him hepassed out into the street. His face was variously described afterwardsas masked with studied indifference, overspread with ghastly pallor, andblazing with defiance. Some said that his teeth chattered, others thathe went out whistling the Persian National Hymn. There was no mistaking,however, the effect produced by the encounter on the man who had seemedto force it. If a rabid dog or a rattlesnake had suddenly thrust itscompanionship on him he could scarcely have displayed a greater access ofterror. His air of authority and assertiveness had gone, his masterfulstride had given way to a furtive pacing to and fro, as of an animalseeking an outlet for escape. In a dazed perfunctory manner, always withhis eyes turning to watch the shop entrance, he gave a few random orders,which the grocer made a show of entering in his book. Now and then hewalked out into the street, looked anxiously in all directions, andhurried back to keep up his pretence of shopping. From one of thesesorties he did not return; he had dashed away into the dusk, and neitherhe nor the dark-faced boy nor the veiled lady were seen again by theexpectant crowds that continued to throng the Scarrick establishment fordays to come.
* * * * *
"I can never thank you and your sister sufficiently," said the grocer.
"We enjoyed the fun of it," said the artist modestly, "and as for themodel, it was a welcome variation on posing for hours for 'The LostHylas'."
"At any rate," said the grocer, "I insist on paying for the hire of theblack beard."
zpostcode
Recruit
weather
mreligion
Yellowpages
sport
constellation
shopping
name
game
directory
literature
Word
tour
furnish
Lottery
tftnews
lyrics
News
digital
car
dir
Edu
Finance
