The Talking Clock

Chapter Six

The wagon was approaching leisurely, drawn by a single horse. The lone occupant of the wagon was a bucolic appearing youngster in his early twenties. On impulse, Johnny stepped out into the road.

The youth saw him and pulled up his horse. “Hello there, neighbor,” he said cheerily. “Live around here?”

Johnny nodded. “Up the road a ways. How about a lift?”

“Surest thing, neighbor. Hop on.” The youth moved obligingly to one side of the wooden wagon seat. Johnny grinned crookedly. “My brother’s with me. Okay for him, too?” Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned and called, “Oh, Sam! Man wants to give us a lift home. Hurry up.”

Sam Cragg came cautiously out of the woods. The man on the wagon seat nodded, “Hi, neighbor!”

In the act of climbing into the wagon, Johnny looked in the back of it and saw that it was filled with gleaming aluminum pans.

He exclaimed, “Peddler, eh?”

The driver chuckled. “Direct salesman. We don’t like the word peddler — not any more.” He clapped the lines on the horse’s rump and added, “Giddap!” then reached back of him and brought out one of the aluminum kettles.

“Not bad, eh?”

Johnny took the thing in his hand. “No, not bad, at all. What is it?”

“What’s it look like, Mister?”

Johnny was sure his guess would be wrong, so merely shook his head. Sam, however, guessed audibly and the salesman roared until the tears rolled down his cheeks.

When he was able to talk, he sputtered. “It does look something like that, but it ain’t. It’s… it’s a chicken fryer. And… and… aw, hell, reach back in one of the boxes and bring out a bottle — two bottles, one from each box.”

Johnny brought them out and looked at the label. The one on the larger bottle read: “Four Star Lemon Extract,” and the one on the smaller bottle, “Four Star Vanilla Extract.”

“Ah,” he said, “the old lemon extract. I haven’t seen it in years.”

The salesman shook his head. “You’re right, Mister, she ain’t what she used to be. Not no more. Folks is getting too smart. That’s why I’m working the dirt roads. The boys like to stick to the pavements with their cars, but me, I got me old Nellie here and she likes the dirt better than the pavement. And so do I. I don’t make as many calls in a day as I would on the concrete, but I do just as well in the long run, I guess.”

“What’s the deal, Mister?” Sam Cragg asked, coming to life.

“I was just going to get to that, gentlemen,” the salesman said. “You see this bottle of lemon extract? It’s a full sixteen ounces of the best flavoring you ever tasted. What would you figure it’d cost you in the store? A dollar? Cheap at the price. But you know what? I sell it for ninety-nine cents, and with each and every bottle — purely for advertising purposes — I give free, absolutely free, mind you, an eight-ounce bottle of this genuine imported domestic vanilla extract. Now, I’m asking you, gentlemen, is that a bargain or isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Johnny asked. “So what about the aluminum pot? Where does that come in?”

The salesman looked discomfited. “I was coming to that. I merely wanted to impress on your minds the real bargain you were going to get in this extract deal and then I was going to bowl you over with the clincher. This genuine nonstain, nonrusting, nonbreakable, nonwearing aluminum chicken fryer, yours with the compliments of the Four Star Extract Company. Yes, sir, gentlemen, the whole works, a sixteen-ounce bottle of lemon extract, an eight-ounce bottle of vanilla extract and this beautiful, magnificent chicken fryer, all for the paltry sum of ninety-nine cents… Think of it, gentlemen, this amazing value for only ninety-nine cents…”

“I am thinking of it,” Johnny said.

“It’s a sale, then? You’ll buy?”

Johnny shrugged. “When we get home… maybe. You see, Grandma runs the house. But… we’ll put in a word, won’t we, Sam?”

Sam scowled. “Yeah, sure. When we get home.”

“That’s splendid,” said the direct salesman. “I’ll take you up on that. How far ahead do you live?”

“Oh, up a little ways,” Johnny replied.

“A mile; two miles?”

“Little farther than that. I’ll point out the place when we get there.”

The direct salesman frowned. “Well, are you in a hurry? ’Cause if you aren’t, I’d like to stop at that farmhouse up there, you know. Save me coming back.”

“Sure, sure,” Johnny said, easily. “No use passing up business, just because we’re along. Go right ahead and stop…”

Sam’s eyes were rolling frantically, but Johnny shot him a look of caution.

The house ahead was a log cabin, with mud plastered into the chinks. John was relieved to see that no telephone wire ran from the road to the house. Nevertheless, when the peddler climbed down from the wagon, he got down with him. He wanted to make sure the man said nothing to the woman, that she could relay along.

He followed leisurely behind the peddler as the man made his way toward the door of the farmhouse.

A faded, tired-looking woman came out of the house as they approached. The peddler immediately went into his act.

“Good afternoon, Madam. My name is Clarence Hackett and I’m representing the Four Star Extract Company. You’ve heard of our firm, of course. The makers of the finest, imported domestic cooking and flavoring extracts. Used by housewives everywhere. This is it right here, Madam…” He went on with his patter, very much as he’d given it to Johnny and Sam in the wagon. When he finished, the woman’s eyes lingered on the shiny, aluminum chicken fryer, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mister, but I ain’t got no money.”

“But, Madam,” Clarence Hackett persisted, “it’s only ninety-nine cents. Surely, you have that much…”

“No, I ain’t, Mister,” the woman said, sadly. “We’re poor people here. I’d sure like to have that there chicken fryer, but I can’t buy it. Not today.”

Clarence Hackett began to frown, but Johnny Fletcher said, smoothly: “Madam, I see you have some chickens. Leghorns, too. I’ll bet they lay a good many eggs.”

“They do, that,” the farm woman said, “but eggs are way down, only eighteen cents a dozen.”

“That’s not very much, is it? Well, they’ll undoubtedly go much higher before the winter’s up. I’ll tell you what, Madam, since you like this chicken fryer and the extracts, why don’t we make a trade? Mmm… six dozen eggs come to approximately one dollar, as nearly as we can make it. Why not give us six dozen eggs and we’ll give you this…”

Clarence Hackett began to sputter, but Johnny said, out of the side of his mouth, “I’ll fix it up with you, later,” and the salesman quieted.

The farm woman snapped eagerly at the bargain and in a few minutes Johnny and Clarence Hackett were stowing away a basket of eggs in the wagon and climbing aboard.

“Okay, Mister,” Hackett said. Then, “They’re your eggs. I’ll take the money…”

Johnny nodded. “Swell, soon’s we get home… You find many folks on the back road who’re short of money?”

Hackett scowled. “That’s the trouble with this business. Those who want to buy haven’t got the money. At least, that’s the excuse they give. I’d sell three women out of five if I took eggs and chickens trade, instead of money…”

“Well, why don’t you?”

Hackett blinked. “Huh? Why, what would I do with them?”

“Sell them. There’s a produce dealer in just about every little crossroads town you come to. Get yourself an egg crate and a chicken coop. Suppose it’s a little extra trouble. You’re making on the deal, aren’t you? These six dozen eggs will bring you a dollar and eight cents from any produce dealer. You’d have gotten only ninety-nine cents in cash, if you’d made the sale, which you wouldn’t have in this case.”

Hackett stared at Johnny. “But chickens? Sometimes they haven’t got six dozen eggs, what about chickens? How’d I know when I was making out?”

“Get yourself posted on market prices and carry a scale. If the chicken comes to sixty cents, take two chickens. I’m sure they’d trade with you even, on such a basis. Try it and see…”

“Damned if I don’t! Why — I’ve been lucky to make one sale in ten calls. Taking eggs and chickens, boy, I’ll clean up. I’ll be in the produce business, yeah — but what’s the difference?”

“Then, you’ll take these eggs?”

“Sure, why not? I’ll even deal with you — I mean your grandmother, on the same basis. We ought to be getting there soon, now. Your home, I mean.”

“Not quite,” Johnny said, wryly. “It’s still quite a piece down the road. In fact — we may not get there today.”

“Huh? Where do you live — Minneapolis?”

“Farther than that.”

“New York,” snarled Sam Cragg.

The peddler whistled. “Then what’re you doing away up here? And—” a frown spread across his face — “why the bunk about living up the road?”

“Because we’re hitchhiking,” Johnny said. “It’s customary to tell a pickup you live up the road a piece. You see, old man, we’re in practically the same racket you are. We’re salesmen, too.”

“No wonder you knew how to handle that woman back there. Say, what’s your line?”

“Books. Physical culture. We do a strong-man pitch. Sam here is Young Samson. He breaks belts and chains with his chest and then I sell the suckers books telling them how they can get to be as strong as Young Samson.”

“Well, where’s your outfit?”

“That,” said Johnny, “is why we’re hitchhiking. We haven’t got an outfit. We’ve had a streak of bad luck. Our car went to pieces and we ran out of supplies — and dough. We’re hitchhiking back to New York, now, to get a new stake.”

“You’ll never get there in this wagon,” declared Hackett. “You’d make a lot better time on the concrete roads…”

“And where are they? To tell you the truth, we’re lost.”

“I’ll show you.” Hackett reached under his seat and brought out an automobile road map of the kind given away at gasoline stations. “I’ll show you where we are now… Right about there. Moose Lake, that’s the next town ahead. Not much of a town. But it’s only eight miles to Highway 60, the main drag between Duluth and Minneapolis. You want to make for it.”

Johnny put his finger on the map, at a spot named Brooklands. “How far are we from that town?”

“Brooklands? Mmm, about twenty-six miles. You should have cut north from there to the Hibbing road that’s paved, instead of cutting south by the shortest roads. Yeah, it’s longer, but you’d of made better time on the pavement.”

Sam Cragg took a handkerchief from his pocket. He flipped it out and draped it across his left arm. Then he brought out his pack of cards.

“Look, Mister,” he said, “I want to show you a trick… take a card.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Clarence Hackett. “The old handkerchief trick, eh? Here… let me show you how it’s done.”

Sam put the cards back into his pocket. “Never mind,” he said, in disgust.