Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/1049



dows, each of which framed a picture whose beauty ministered to his artistic sensibilities. Was it possible that the great hulk on the stool saw anything of the wonderful colors, lights, and shadows of the river and the river craft at which he was stupidly staring? No, that flabby, perspiring personality blotting the scene had no soul above Kopec gum! It was disgusting to have to treat with such people at all They should never buy a pound from him if he were Ballister and Beck!

"What you gettin' for it now?"

Coulson had to repeat his question before he attracted the salesman's attention.

"I haven't offered any this year yet," he answered, evasively.

"Prices stiffening, eh?"

"Never known anything like it."

"What's the reason?"

Creighton vaguely recalled Mr. Beck's references to floods, famine, and pestilence, but they sounded too much like "battle, murder, and sudden death," of the Litany, so he cast his teaching to the winds.

"I really can't say," he answered, truthfully, "except that there's an increased demand and a diminished supply."

Coulson spat reflectively at the cuspidor and barely ringed it.

"Hog!" muttered Creighton to himself as he edged his chair away.

"I thought maybe," the old man went on, slowly shifting his tobacco quid into his other cheek—"I thought maybe there might be another flood—same's last year."

Creighton shook his head. "I think not," he answered.

"It was the penter-bug year before last. Weren't it the penter-bug. Tom, that made the short supply?" Mr. Coulson continued, gravely.

"Yes, sir—penter-bug. They had 'em bad."

"Sure 'tain't them, sonny?"

Mr. Coulson's face was as solemn as his inquiry, but Creighton was equally serious.

"I haven't heard of the penter-bug this year," he answered, gravely.

"Well, what's offerin'?"