in the week. They’d helped more and more each year, and this summer Joseph was planning to put them to work full-time cataloging the many books, periodicals, maps, and navigation charts that had yet to be properly sorted. Joseph would have done the job himself, but even his remarkable sight had its limitations. Years of practice had trained the touch receptors on the tips of his fingers to pick up most of the subtle raised shapes created when ink was applied to paper, but the kids’ eyes could simply process the information faster.
That a store selling books would need more than a single employee to ring up the occasional sale might have come as a surprise to those in other parts of the country, but not here. Portland was a town in love with the written word. There were seven booksellers within the city limits and all of them did a brisk business. Joseph’s shop had been successful, practically from day one, and as such had always carried additional inventory to feed the voracious reading habits of the locals. Even when shipments were late, Wylde’s had new titles available, thanks to Kate’s insistence that they accept the customer’s own books in trade, rather than require currency for every purchase. The general rule was two for one, depending on the condition of the used volumes and the cost of the new text. The result was shelves overflowing with books, many of which were out of print or otherwise unavailable locally.
It was ten past nine by the time the trio reached Alder Street, just under an hour since leaving the house. Joseph was pleased.
“Lot of folks out this morning,” Maddie said.
Alder crossed Third Avenue in the heart of the downtown business district and only a few blocks from the waterfront. On every day but Sunday it was crowded with tradesmen, merchants, shoppers, and travelers. The seasonal widening of the Willamette may have slowed the pace, but with local floodwaters at an average depth of only two and a half feet, the deluge was manageable. Much of the business to be done on First and Front Streets had simply relocated a few blocks west, to where horse-drawn carts could still gain passage. Some of the storefronts on Third had actually seen an increase in sales, while others found new opportunities setting up floating markets and other waterproof enterprises.
Wylde’s, Booksellers and Navigation was two doors off the main thoroughfare, but a well-placed sign made it easily visible to anyone walking (or wading) past.
Joseph put a hand on his son’s shoulder, redirecting him away from open water.
“Kick, I want you to make it across to the store without filling up your boots, okay?”
“I wasn’t gonna dive in. There’s a boat coming.”
Joseph caught the unmistakable odor of cigars and sweat just before the small canoe bumped into the plank sidewalk.
“Good morning, Ted.”
“And to you, my young friend,” said the owner of the T. Williamson Tobacco Company. Joseph doubted Ted Williamson was more than five years older than himself, but something had aged the man beyond the forty winters he’d counted. He coughed as frequently as some of the yellow-eyed miners and smelled almost as bad, although Joseph wondered if his own heightened sense of smell was exaggerating the man’s offenses. He was certainly pleasant enough.
“Care for a lift?”
Joseph and the kids climbed into the boat for the short journey across Alder Street. Ted handed an oar each to Kick and Maddie.
“She wobbles a bit, so try to keep her on an even keel.”
The kids put both oars in the water and were in sync immediately. Ted had a moment to be impressed before a coughing jag overtook him.
“All right there, Ted?” Joseph asked.
Ted waved off the concern but continued coughing. Upon reaching the other side, he stumbled out of the boat, barely keeping himself upright. He turned to offer a hand to the kids, but both hopped onto the boardwalk before Ted had raised himself upright. Joseph exited last,
That a store selling books would need more than a single employee to ring up the occasional sale might have come as a surprise to those in other parts of the country, but not here. Portland was a town in love with the written word. There were seven booksellers within the city limits and all of them did a brisk business. Joseph’s shop had been successful, practically from day one, and as such had always carried additional inventory to feed the voracious reading habits of the locals. Even when shipments were late, Wylde’s had new titles available, thanks to Kate’s insistence that they accept the customer’s own books in trade, rather than require currency for every purchase. The general rule was two for one, depending on the condition of the used volumes and the cost of the new text. The result was shelves overflowing with books, many of which were out of print or otherwise unavailable locally.
It was ten past nine by the time the trio reached Alder Street, just under an hour since leaving the house. Joseph was pleased.
“Lot of folks out this morning,” Maddie said.
Alder crossed Third Avenue in the heart of the downtown business district and only a few blocks from the waterfront. On every day but Sunday it was crowded with tradesmen, merchants, shoppers, and travelers. The seasonal widening of the Willamette may have slowed the pace, but with local floodwaters at an average depth of only two and a half feet, the deluge was manageable. Much of the business to be done on First and Front Streets had simply relocated a few blocks west, to where horse-drawn carts could still gain passage. Some of the storefronts on Third had actually seen an increase in sales, while others found new opportunities setting up floating markets and other waterproof enterprises.
Wylde’s, Booksellers and Navigation was two doors off the main thoroughfare, but a well-placed sign made it easily visible to anyone walking (or wading) past.
Joseph put a hand on his son’s shoulder, redirecting him away from open water.
“Kick, I want you to make it across to the store without filling up your boots, okay?”
“I wasn’t gonna dive in. There’s a boat coming.”
Joseph caught the unmistakable odor of cigars and sweat just before the small canoe bumped into the plank sidewalk.
“Good morning, Ted.”
“And to you, my young friend,” said the owner of the T. Williamson Tobacco Company. Joseph doubted Ted Williamson was more than five years older than himself, but something had aged the man beyond the forty winters he’d counted. He coughed as frequently as some of the yellow-eyed miners and smelled almost as bad, although Joseph wondered if his own heightened sense of smell was exaggerating the man’s offenses. He was certainly pleasant enough.
“Care for a lift?”
Joseph and the kids climbed into the boat for the short journey across Alder Street. Ted handed an oar each to Kick and Maddie.
“She wobbles a bit, so try to keep her on an even keel.”
The kids put both oars in the water and were in sync immediately. Ted had a moment to be impressed before a coughing jag overtook him.
“All right there, Ted?” Joseph asked.
Ted waved off the concern but continued coughing. Upon reaching the other side, he stumbled out of the boat, barely keeping himself upright. He turned to offer a hand to the kids, but both hopped onto the boardwalk before Ted had raised himself upright. Joseph exited last,
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