Читать книгу God and the Groceryman - Harold Bell Wright - Страница 6

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JOE PADDOCK was wholesomely aware of the hustling talents of his fellow townsmen. He loved Henry Winton and his business friends and admired them tremendously. Modestly, he felt himself inferior to these live wires—it was so often difficult for him to hold up his end in the game which they played with such tireless and brilliant enthusiasm.

But the groceryman was not at all pleased with the idea of going to the hotel at four o’clock to meet the gentleman who had so impressed Mr. Oskins. He grumbled that he wasn’t going to push himself on a total stranger. It might be all right for people like Oskins and for newspaper reporters and promoters and such, but as for himself—well, he wasn’t that kind—he had a little decent reserve, he did. If it wasn’t for good old Henry Winton and the First National he’d not do it—not for all the boosters in Westover. Still, on the other hand, the boys were all pushing for Westover and whatever good came to Westover he would share. This Mr. Saxton might bring a manufacturing plant of some sort to Westover with hundreds—it might be thousands—of employees to rent houses and buy clothing and groceries, and a big banking business for somebody. You never could tell. Such things happened to other cities. Some one really ought to get in touch with him. For a man to accept his portion of whatever good came to his city without doing his share toward pushing the community interests was not exactly playing the game. Joe Paddock honestly wished to play the game. He guessed he’d just walk over to the hotel and maybe meet Mr. Saxton casually. No—he’d better take his car. Mr. Saxton might like to drive around for an hour or so. It would be a wonderful personal opportunity—being the first one to meet and show him around—if he should really be figuring on starting something big.

In the somewhat ornate lobby of the Palace, Joe tried to appear as if he had merely dropped in to purchase a cigar. He managed to spend some time at the cigar counter making a selection (his vest pocket was already full) and, while waiting for his change, looked indifferently over the guests in the lobby. Neither Oskins nor any one as imposing as Saxton was to be seen. The groceryman purchased a newspaper. He had already read it—and again waited for his change. The Mayor, George Riley, chanced to pass that way and Joe laid hold of him eagerly. They were exchanging the usual “How’s business?” with the accepted formula on the increase of building permits and the growth of bank deposits, when Oskins appeared suddenly at the groceryman’s elbow with: “Excuse me, gentlemen—Mr. Paddock, Mayor Riley—I want to introduce you to Mr. Saxton. Mr. Saxton is from Kansas City. He is spending some time in Westover. I am sure he will be glad to know you gentlemen. Excuse me please, they want me at the desk for something.”

It seemed to Joe Paddock that the stranger was regarding him with rather more interest than the occasion warranted and he was struck by something familiar in the man’s face—what was it—could he have met him somewhere?—those eyes, serene, kindly, shadowed with sadness.

He was distinctly conscious of a little thrill of pleasure when Saxton, instead of giving all his attention to the Mayor, said: “You are in the grocery business, I understand, Mr. Paddock.”

The groceryman answered with pardonable pride: “Yes, sir, twenty years now—right here in Westover.”

The stranger appeared unusually thoughtful. “Twenty years,” he said, and his voice warmed the groceryman’s heart.

Joe was about to ask, “Haven’t I met you before?” when Mayor Riley broke in with: “Are you interested in the grocery business, Mr. Saxton?”

“Oh, no, not at all. That is, not directly, in the way that you mean. We are all of us bound to be more or less interested in the grocery business, don’t you think—particularly at meal time?”

The Mayor and the groceryman laughed and the tiny flame in Joe’s heart grew brighter.

Encouraged by the stranger’s genial humor the Mayor asked courteously, “And what line of business are you particularly interested in, Mr. Saxton?”

Joe waited breathlessly for the answer.

Mr. Saxton replied carefully: “Just at present, Mayor Riley, I am making a study—I may say in fact a survey of certain conditions throughout the country. Frankly, it is for that purpose that I have come to your city.”

The groceryman drew a long breath. Oskins was right in his estimate of the importance of this man’s presence in Westover.

“Ah,” said the Mayor, “speaking for the city, Mr. Saxton, we shall be very glad indeed to extend to you every courtesy—heh, Joe?”

“I should say yes,” exclaimed the groceryman in his best boosting vein. “And we’ll be mighty glad for the opportunity. What do you say to a little drive around this afternoon, Mr. Saxton? I have my car right here. You’ll come, too, won’t you, Mayor?”

“Sorry, Joe, but I can’t this afternoon—council meeting to-night, you know.”

“I shall be very glad to go, Mr. Paddock,” said Saxton genially.

As he drove carefully down State Street toward his store with Mr. Saxton beside him, Joe Paddock was a different man from the gloomy creature who had so reluctantly entered the lobby of the Palace less than an hour before. The personality of the stranger—that impression of his wide experience and deep knowledge of men and affairs—the feeling of his inner strength and steadfast purpose, together with the thought of all that his presence in Westover might mean, quickened the groceryman’s spirit to new life. “He’s big,” said Joe to himself, “just naturally big—you can’t help feeling it every time he looks at you.”

“Ever been in Westover before, Mr. Saxton?”

“I have passed through several times. That is all.”

“Can’t get over the impression that I have seen you somewhere.”

The groceryman, because the State Street traffic demanded all his attention, did not see the stranger’s eyes as he answered gravely: “Perhaps.” Then he added the usual commonplace: “This is a small world, Mr. Paddock.”

“You won’t mind if I stop at the store? I’ll only be a minute—want to tell ’em I won’t be back.”

“Certainly, I’ll just wait in the car. Please don’t hurry on my account.” Mr. Saxton looked at the groceryman’s place of business with an interest which pleased Joe mightily.

Hurrying through the store with an air of importance, the groceryman bustled into his office, glanced at the unopened letters on his desk, hurried out to the cash register, opened the till, shut it again, spoke to the delivery boy, greeted customers with a hasty nod and briskly said to the listless clerk: “Bill, I’m goin’ out—won’t be back this afternoon—you see to things and close up. Got to show big business man from Kansas City around town. So long.”

Bill gazed wearily after the retreating form of his energetic employer.

“I guess you’ve already seen the downtown district,” said Joe, as he settled himself under the wheel beside his guest.

“This is State Street—principal business street—First National on corner two blocks west. I’m a director—Henry Winton’s president. Be glad to do anything we can for you in the banking line, Mr. Saxton. Four new business buildings under construction right now. Two on State, one on Washington—Washington crosses State, next corner there—one on Hope. Hope is next street south. We’ll start out Lincoln Avenue and go through the park. Building permits last month show one hundred per cent increase over last year. Bank deposits about doubled. Gosh! That fellow just missed us—traffic almost as badly congested as Kansas City.”

They turned into Lincoln Boulevard and the going was easier. Joe relaxed his tense grip on the wheel.

“So you are interested in Westover, are you, Mr. Saxton—sort of looking us over, heh? Well, sir, you would go a long way to find a better town.”

“Westover seems to be a very progressive city,” agreed Mr. Saxton.

“Progressive is right,” said Joe stoutly. “Wonderful opening for a big factory or manufacturing plant of any kind. That’s what you’re looking for, I suppose.”

“You’ll pardon me, Mr. Paddock,” returned Saxton gently, “but I am not at liberty just at present to reveal the exact nature of the investment which I—I should say my principal—desires to make. I am only a confidential agent in the matter. I can assure you, however, that the interests which I represent are very large. You, as a business man, will understand of course why I cannot, at this time, go further. I am not ready yet to make even this much too generally known but I feel sure that you will respect my confidence.”

The groceryman was deeply moved. He felt that such an expression from a man like Mr. Saxton was no mean compliment. And indeed he was right. Dan Matthews’ confidential agent was not often mistaken in his judgments of men. Joe Paddock was worthy.

The groceryman answered with unassumed dignity: “Thank you, Mr. Saxton,” while his honest heart swelled with pride.

“This is our park—Roosevelt Park. That building over there beyond the band stand is the armory. This one here on our right is the Public Library.”

“Carnegie, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes, Westover could scarcely afford a library building like that, you know. Wonderful thing for a man to give his millions to such good works, Mr. Saxton.”

The groceryman’s guest agreed heartily. “It is a good work; Mr. Carnegie is worthy of every honor. You say that you have lived in Westover twenty years, Mr. Paddock?”

“I’ve been in business here twenty years. I was born and raised on a farm eight miles west of town. My father and mother settled here in the early days. They are living on the old place yet. When I finished my university course—our State University here in Westover, we’ll drive around there presently—I married and started in the grocery business.”

He paused and for some reason Saxton turned his head to look thoughtfully at his companion’s face. When Joe continued, his voice seemed to drag a little. “My wife was a country girl—neighboring farm—we were classmates in the University. I always liked the farm myself but she—well, after finishing school she didn’t care much for the country life and so we moved into town.”

He suddenly, brightened up. “This is our Masonic Temple—you’re not a Mason, Mr. Saxton?”

“No. That is a beautiful building. How many children, Mr. Paddock?”

“Only one, a girl. She graduated from the University last year.”

“You have brothers and sisters?”

“No, there were four of us, three boys and a girl. I am the only one left.”

They saw the Odd Fellows’ Hall. Mr. Saxton answered that he was not an Odd Fellow.

“You are a family man, are you, Mr. Saxton?”

And this time it was the groceryman who turned his head as Saxton answered: “I am alone in the world now, Mr. Paddock.”

They had viewed the County Hospital, Court House, City Hall, ice plant, power house, sash and door factory, flour mills and elevators, cold storage plant, warehouse, high school and the University, and were driving down a wide avenue between trim, unfenced lawns shaded by stately trees when the groceryman, pointing, said: “That’s my place—the house with the vines over the porch. We’ll have you for dinner some evening soon.”

“I should be delighted,” returned Saxton, looking with interest at the groceryman’s modest but substantial home.

“House is a little old,” commented Joe, and again his voice dragged. “Built it the year we were married.”

“That big show place, across the street in the next block, is Henry Winton’s.”

“You have many beautiful homes in Westover, Mr. Paddock.”

“Yes, sir, we have some mighty fine places.”

Saxton looked at his host. For some reason the groceryman was speaking with not quite the buoyant spirit which had marked his talk earlier in the drive. “I notice several fine churches, too.”

“Churches? Oh, yes, we have them all. I’m a Presbyterian myself. Father and mother were just about the first Presbyterians in Westover County. Henry Winton, he’s a Baptist. His folks started the Baptist Church same as mine did the Presbyterian. Mayor Riley and his folks are Congregationalists. What’s yours, Mr. Saxton? I take it that you are a church member.”

“I have been a member of the Old Commons Church in Kansas City for the last fifteen years. You consider that churches are a great asset to a town, do you not, Mr. Paddock? I mean from a purely business point of view?”

“No doubt about it, sir,” returned the groceryman heartily. “And you’ll find Westover as well fixed in that line as any city of its size in the country. We’re mighty proud of our churches. Most of our civic leaders are members somewhere. And our preachers—take ’em as a whole—are a mighty practical and down-to-date bunch. Just as good rustlers—most of ’em—as the best of our live wires in business. Take my own pastor, Dr. Coleman, he’s president of the Kiwanis Club. The Methodist minister, Reverend Wilson, he’s a member of the board of directors of the Chamber of Commerce. The ministers have their ministerial association and take just as much interest in all sorts of civic affairs as if they were merchants, or real estate men, or bankers, or in any other business. Why, the Congregational pastor, Mr. Carter, he’s chairman of the finance committee of our Boosters’ club. He’s starting a drive right now for a hundred thousand dollar advertising fund. Going to put the advantages of Westover in every high-class magazine in the country. It’s just like Dr. Coleman said in his sermon last Sunday: ‘The world demands a practical Christianity, and we’ve got to make religion pay, right here on earth, if we expect to interest people in it.’ And then he went on to show how the money spent in Foreign Missions had opened up those heathen countries to our commerce until the returns in dollars and cents were already a thousand times more than the total cost of the work. Wish you would come around to our services, Mr. Saxton. You’d like Dr. Coleman. He’s a regular he-man. Come next Sunday. He’s goin’ to preach on ‘Fig Leaf Fashions.’ How’s that for a live one—nothing slow about that, heh? Perhaps you have noticed his ad in the papers.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Saxton, “I have. And is Westover well organized in community work?”

“We certainly are. There is the Chamber of Commerce, the Get-together Club, Rotary, Kiwanis, Lions, Boosters, beside our Merchant’s Association, Wholesale and Retail, Board of Trade, Real Estate Board, Bar Association, Medical Association, Automobile Dealers’ Association, Labor Council and a lot more.”

“And your charities and welfare work, down-to-date too, I suppose?”

“Oh, sure—our Organized Charities has a big drive every year. You see, by putting the charities of the city in the hands of paid professionals we eliminate a lot of unworthy cases and cut the total cost down to the minimum. Our citizens are really generous in their subscriptions, Mr. Saxton. And beside this almost every club and order and lodge has a benevolent fund, you know. Of course we have the Y. M. C. A., Y. W. C. A., Boy Scouts, Campfire Girls, and a host of other similar organizations that are supported by the town in one way or another and are all doing good work, too.

“Well, here we are at the country club. Thought you might like to drop in for a little while. We’re likely to find some of the men you’ll want to meet about this time of day.”

As they walked toward the wide steps, leading to the main entrance, the groceryman remarked: “Not so grand as some of your big city clubs, Mr. Saxton, but we have the same spirit. We manage to give some mighty swell affairs occasionally at that.”

“I have no doubt that you do. The club presents a very creditable appearance indeed. I have observed, too, that spirit is not at all dependent upon size. For instance, consider the flea.”

The groceryman roared with laughter and slapped his guest on the back. “That’s a good one—that’s a dandy.”

After registering Mr. Saxton, in due form, and directing that a visitor’s card be mailed to him at his hotel, the groceryman, with an air of mystery, drew his guest to one side. “I don’t know,” he said in a low confidential tone, “perhaps I ought not to mention it, but—well, really I don’t want to make a mistake—would you, ah, would you care for a little drink?”

“Thank you, no,” replied Mr. Saxton, in exactly the courteous, matter-of-fact tone that he would have used in declining an offered cup of tea.

“It’s the real stuff,” assured the groceryman anxiously. “I almost never drink myself—just a little nip once in a great while, you know. But we have it here and if you like, don’t hesitate.”

“No, thank you.”

Several men came in, greeted the groceryman, were introduced to Mr. Saxton and went on to the locker room. When the door at the end of a corridor leading to the locker room opened, shouts of boisterous laughter with a confusion of hearty voices reached the groceryman and his guest. Several of the members, after meeting the stranger, winked slyly at Joe and nodded toward the door at the end of the corridor with a significant look toward the politely unobserving man from Kansas City. But Joe always frowned a warning with a negative shake of his head.

The good fellows really wished to be hospitable to the groceryman’s friend but if he would not—well, they guessed it was up to old Joe to entertain him. Mayor Riley came, inquired anxiously what Mr. Saxton thought of Westover, made the customary silent but significant signals to Joe, was frowned upon by the groceryman and went his way to the locker room. Henry Winton came. The banker acknowledged the introduction to the guest as if Mr. Saxton were an old friend of his old friend, Joe Paddock, discussed briefly the business situation in Kansas City, Westover and throughout the country, and went the way of his fellow club members. It was significant that Banker Winton needed no warning look from the groceryman.

And so, presently, the groceryman and Mr. Saxton were seated in a quiet corner of the veranda overlooking the tennis courts while, in the locker room and on the golf course, Mayor Riley and Banker Winton were making known to their club friends and fellow citizens the probable significance of Mr. Saxton’s presence in Westover.

“Smoke?” inquired Joe, offering a cigar.

“Thank you—Oh, my favorite brand! Do you know, Mr. Paddock, every time I smoke a really good cigar I am nervous.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yes—you see, smoking makes me wonder how long it will be before the disciples of Volstead make my innocent pleasure illegal, and when smoking is made a crime I know that I shall develop criminal tendencies.”

“Heh? Oh, I see,” laughed Joe. “Well, I guess you have no cause to worry. They may succeed in prohibiting the use of tobacco but, law or no law, we’ll smoke just the same.”

“As long as they leave us our locker rooms,” murmured Mr. Saxton in an odd tone.

And, for some reason, Joe Paddock did not laugh.

“Mr. Saxton,” he said while they watched the tennis players, “I have been wanting to ask you all the afternoon—what, in your opinion, is the general effect of the Volstead Act? I mean, particularly, upon the home life and upon the characters of our young people?”

Mr. Saxton did not answer. He was watching two young people, a man and a woman, who were playing a vigorous game on the nearest court.

Joe was about to repeat his question when his guest exclaimed: “What a beautiful girl! Who is she?”

The groceryman promptly dismissed the prohibition question.

“That, Mr. Saxton, is my daughter, Georgia.”

Mr. Saxton turned to his host with a hearty: “Indeed, sir, I congratulate you. She is a wonderful girl—such vigor, such grace, such spirit!”

Joe Paddock answered slowly, and there was that in his voice and in his face which deepened the shadows of sadness in the dark eyes of his guest. “Georgia and I have always been good pals. She’s grown up now—finished university course last year. Can’t seem to make myself believe it—don’t see as much of her these days as I used to.”

Presently he continued: “That chap with her is Jack Ellory. I want you to meet him. He is one of our most promising young business men—automobiles. Takes an active part in every progressive movement. President of our Organized Charities. A genuine public-spirited, up-and-coming citizen. Everybody says that Jack is bound to be a big man some day. He and Georgia have been chums since they attended kindergarten together. Good family, too. Parents both dead—has no one but himself—inherited enough to start him in business.”

It was evident that the groceryman was making an effort to speak with enthusiasm. But, with his eyes fixed upon his daughter and her partner, his voice dragged into a dull spiritless monotone. “Georgia is a good girl, Mr. Saxton,” he finished with a determined effort. “She and I have always been regular pals.”

And the groceryman felt that this stranger, whose face, with the dark brooding eyes, seemed so hauntingly familiar, that the stranger somehow understood.