Honeyville by Daisy Waugh Page B

leaflets, several of them in languages I couldn’t recognize. In one corner, propped up for all to see, there were a couple of hunting guns.
    Leaning over the counter in front of us was a tall young boy. Dressed in black felt hat and fresh, unsullied working clothes, he looked as if his thin bones were growing longer even as he slouched there. We waited in the empty room as he leafed slowly through his magazine, ignoring us. Finally, I said:
    ‘Excuse me. This is the office for the Union, isn’t it?’
    The boy turned another page, pointed at the sign behind him, which confirmed the fact, and continued to read.
    I glanced at Inez, torn between laughter and a strong urge to leave. She winked at me, gently shunted me out of the way. ‘It must be awfully interesting, whatever it is you’re reading,’ she said, leaning over the counter towards him, ‘if you can’t even look up from it to speak to us.’
    He glanced at her without interest, and then back at his magazine. ‘Surely is,’ he replied, turning yet another page. ‘What can I do for you, ladies?’
    ‘Why!’ Inez cried. ‘But you’re reading The Masses , aren’t you?’ He glanced at her again. ‘You are!’ she said. ‘I recognize the picture. It’s all the way from New York. Young man, I find it hard to believe there’s more than one copy of that magazine in this little town. May I ask you where you came by it?’ She smiled at him, coquette that she was, and already he was melting. ‘I hope you didn’t take it from my home. Because the last I knew, the only copy of that magazine that ever made it this far west was lying in a little heap at my own bedside.’
    I had never heard of The Masses – not then at least. It seemed extraordinary that Inez and this sullen Union boy should share the same reading material.
    He said: ‘You read The Masses ?’
    ‘Gosh, no,’ she waved it aside. ‘I look at the pictures. It’s all about the pictures, if you didn’t know. The pictures really are something, don’t you think? I look at the pictures, and then heck, I usually throw the darn thing away.’
    He stared at her.
    ‘Can you help us please?’ she smiled at him again. ‘We’re looking for Mr Lawrence O’Neill. Do you know him?’
    ‘Sure I know him,’ he said. He tapped his magazine. ‘I bought this with me from Denver. In case you’re thinking. And there’s quite a line of people wanting to read it. So if you ain’t reading yours, maybe you could drop it by the office, would you? When you’re done looking at the pictures.’
    ‘Certainly not!’ she said. God knows quite why the idea so outraged her, but it did. ‘I’m going to pass it to my friend here, once I’m done with it. And then I shall make it available to everyone in the town by putting it on display over at the library … If they let me,’ she added doubtfully. ‘There’s not many in this town will appreciate the gesture … But if you Union men want to come over and read it at the library, you’ll be more than welcome … At least on Thursdays and Fridays. That’s when I’m working there. Maybe don’t bother otherwise. I don’t suppose Mrs Svensson’s going to be that happy to see you. She’s the one runs the place … Won’t you tell me kindly, have you happened to see Mr Lawrence O’Neill at all lately? Do you have any idea where I might find him?’
    ‘He’s out at Cokedale today,’ he said.
    ‘Do you know when he might be back?’
    ‘Nope.’
    ‘Today? Tomorrow?’
    ‘Maybe today.’
    ‘All right,’ she said slowly. ‘Well maybe … do you think you could tell him we came looking for him? It’s Miss Dubois and Miss …’ She stopped again. Looked at me and laughed. ‘For crying out loud, Dora, won’t you please tell me the rest of your name?’
    ‘Whitworth. Dora Whitworth.’
    ‘Whitworth!’ she gasped, clapping her hands together, rolling her eyes to emphasize her relief at being permitted to know it at last – and making me laugh