he flashed a bright chrome gadget.
“Whatcha say, ladies, lookee here what I got for you, the finest little kitchen helper in the world, garnteed to do twelve —count ‘em, twelve—
diff’rent
household jobs, and all for the price of sixty-nine cents, a fair price which goes with the day.”
Tamar Penrose stood listening to the spiel, holding the child Missy in front of her. During Jack’s come-on, I had been made aware of the postmistress, and I took the opportunity to assess her evident charms.
Scarcely what would be termed a beauty, Tamar Penrose had good skin and a head of rioting dark hair. She was taller than most of the women about her, with a full, firm body, wide hips, but a narrow waist. She held herself in a lazy, though erect posture, so her breasts strained under the bright print of her dress, showing her nipples to provocative effect. Her lips were very red against the pale skin, and when her hands moved on the child’s shoulders at her waist, I saw that the fingernails were lacquered a matching color. And though I never caught her looking directly at me, still I had the feeling she was observing me. As for the child, her pale eyes were now focused on a farmer standing close by, sharpening a sickle on a handstone.
Jack’s audience having thinned appreciably, I stepped over to the corner of his cart just as Old Man Soakes came striding up. He grasped Jack by his coat lapels, whisked him around to the back of the cart, and spoke in a rough, angry voice.
“I wasn’t doin‘ nothin,” I heard Jack protest feebly.
“Never mind what you wasn’t doin‘,” Soakes replied, “stay out of them woods. You’ve had your warnin’.” He strode back to his place at the rear of the Oldsmobile while Jack reappeared, his fingers shaking as he adjusted his jacket.
“Damned grizzly is what he is,” he muttered, shooting a look from the corner of his eye. “Them woods ain’t private property, y‘ know.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin with the back of his hand.
“What happened in there this morning, Jack?” I asked. He stopped his hand and looked at me closely, as though deciding whether or not to take me into his confidence.
“As strange a thing as I ever hope to see,” he said after a moment, his eye on the bent back at the Oldsmobile trunk. “And I seen it with these here two eyes, which is as good as they come. Twenty-twenty vision, I got—”
“But what happened?” I persisted. “What did you see?”
“I seen a ghost,” he whispered.
I stepped closer to catch his every word. “What sort of ghost?”
“A ghost that once was dead, but now’s come alive. A living ghost, as sure as I stand here. And it was screamin‘.” He ducked another look at Old Man Soakes who accepted some money from a passer-by in exchange for a bottle and then slammed the trunk lid with a loud crash. Straightening, the man cast another baleful glance in our direction.
“Later,” Jack whispered; he left me standing by the cart and quickly hopped over to the farmer who was sharpening his sickle with the handstone.
“Whatcha say, Will Jones, whatcha say,” he began, flicking a glance to where Old Man Soakes stood at the edge of the crowd, still watching. Assuming an air of nonchalance, Jack reached for the sickle and tested its edge with his thumb. “Lemme tellya, Will,” he said to the farmer, “you can sharpen up that there sickle a lot faster on a wheel.”
“Haven’t got one,” the farmer replied.
“Come along, I got one on my rig.” Jack brought the farmer back to the rig, moving me aside to reveal under a flap a grindstone clamped to a piece of the cart frame. Instructing the farmer to turn the handle, he laid the blade to the wheel and proceeded to grind the edge. Sparks flew up like meteors, and the peddler cocked his head this way and that, ostensibly checking the angle, but I could see he had an eye on the departing back of Old Man Soakes. The child Missy left her mother’s side
“Whatcha say, ladies, lookee here what I got for you, the finest little kitchen helper in the world, garnteed to do twelve —count ‘em, twelve—
diff’rent
household jobs, and all for the price of sixty-nine cents, a fair price which goes with the day.”
Tamar Penrose stood listening to the spiel, holding the child Missy in front of her. During Jack’s come-on, I had been made aware of the postmistress, and I took the opportunity to assess her evident charms.
Scarcely what would be termed a beauty, Tamar Penrose had good skin and a head of rioting dark hair. She was taller than most of the women about her, with a full, firm body, wide hips, but a narrow waist. She held herself in a lazy, though erect posture, so her breasts strained under the bright print of her dress, showing her nipples to provocative effect. Her lips were very red against the pale skin, and when her hands moved on the child’s shoulders at her waist, I saw that the fingernails were lacquered a matching color. And though I never caught her looking directly at me, still I had the feeling she was observing me. As for the child, her pale eyes were now focused on a farmer standing close by, sharpening a sickle on a handstone.
Jack’s audience having thinned appreciably, I stepped over to the corner of his cart just as Old Man Soakes came striding up. He grasped Jack by his coat lapels, whisked him around to the back of the cart, and spoke in a rough, angry voice.
“I wasn’t doin‘ nothin,” I heard Jack protest feebly.
“Never mind what you wasn’t doin‘,” Soakes replied, “stay out of them woods. You’ve had your warnin’.” He strode back to his place at the rear of the Oldsmobile while Jack reappeared, his fingers shaking as he adjusted his jacket.
“Damned grizzly is what he is,” he muttered, shooting a look from the corner of his eye. “Them woods ain’t private property, y‘ know.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin with the back of his hand.
“What happened in there this morning, Jack?” I asked. He stopped his hand and looked at me closely, as though deciding whether or not to take me into his confidence.
“As strange a thing as I ever hope to see,” he said after a moment, his eye on the bent back at the Oldsmobile trunk. “And I seen it with these here two eyes, which is as good as they come. Twenty-twenty vision, I got—”
“But what happened?” I persisted. “What did you see?”
“I seen a ghost,” he whispered.
I stepped closer to catch his every word. “What sort of ghost?”
“A ghost that once was dead, but now’s come alive. A living ghost, as sure as I stand here. And it was screamin‘.” He ducked another look at Old Man Soakes who accepted some money from a passer-by in exchange for a bottle and then slammed the trunk lid with a loud crash. Straightening, the man cast another baleful glance in our direction.
“Later,” Jack whispered; he left me standing by the cart and quickly hopped over to the farmer who was sharpening his sickle with the handstone.
“Whatcha say, Will Jones, whatcha say,” he began, flicking a glance to where Old Man Soakes stood at the edge of the crowd, still watching. Assuming an air of nonchalance, Jack reached for the sickle and tested its edge with his thumb. “Lemme tellya, Will,” he said to the farmer, “you can sharpen up that there sickle a lot faster on a wheel.”
“Haven’t got one,” the farmer replied.
“Come along, I got one on my rig.” Jack brought the farmer back to the rig, moving me aside to reveal under a flap a grindstone clamped to a piece of the cart frame. Instructing the farmer to turn the handle, he laid the blade to the wheel and proceeded to grind the edge. Sparks flew up like meteors, and the peddler cocked his head this way and that, ostensibly checking the angle, but I could see he had an eye on the departing back of Old Man Soakes. The child Missy left her mother’s side
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