bundle of little books out of one of his sagging pockets and began dandling them in his hand. “Just as an act of friendship I would be willing to part with some if any of you gentlemen care for them . . . Here, Fenian, take these and see if anybody wants one; they’re two dollars apiece. My young friend here will attend to distribution . . . Goodnight, gentlemen.” And he went off and the train had started again and Fainy found himself standing with the little books in his hand in the middle of the lurching car with the suspicious eyes of all the smokers boring into him like so many gimlets.
“Let’s see one,” said a little man with protruding ears who sat in the corner. He opened the book and started reading greedily. Fainy stood in the center of the car, feeling pins and needles all over. He caught a white glint in the corner of an eyeball as the little man looked down the line of cigars through the crinkly smoke. A touch of pink came into the protruding ears.
“Hot stuff,” said the little man, “but two dollars is too much.”
Fainy found himself stuttering: “They’re nnnot mmmine, sir; I don’t know . . .”
“Oh, well, what the hell . . .” The little man dropped two dollar bills in Fainy’s hand and went back to his reading. Fainy had six dollars in his pocket and two books left when he started back to the daycoach. Half way down the car he met the conductor. His heart almost stopped beating. The conductor looked at him sharply but said nothing.
Doc Bingham was sitting in his seat with his head in his hand and his eyes closed as if he were dozing. Fainy slipped into the seat beside him.
“How many did they take?” asked Doc Bingham, talking out of the corner of his mouth without opening his eyes.
“I got six bucks . . . Golly, the conductor scared me, the way he looked at me.”
“You leave the conductor to me, and remember that it’s never a crime in the face of humanity and enlightenment to distribute the works of the great humanists among the merchants and moneychangers of this godforsaken country . . . You better slip me the dough.”
Fainy wanted to ask about the dollar he’d been promised, but Doc Bingham was off on Othello again:
If after every tempest there come such calms as this
Then may the laboring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus high.
They slept late at the Commercial House in Saginaw, and ate a large breakfast, during which Doc Bingham discoursed on the theory and practice of book salesmanship. “I am very much afraid that through the hinterland to which we are about to penetrate,” he said as he cut up three fried eggs and stuffed his mouth with bakingpowder biscuit, “that we will find the yokels still hankering after Maria Monk.”
Fainy didn’t know who Maria Monk was, but he didn’t like to ask. He went with Doc Bingham round to Hummer’s livery stable to hire a horse and wagon. There followed a long wrangle between the firm of Truthseeker Inc., and the management of Hummer’s Livery Stable as to the rent of a springwagon and an elderly piebald horse with cruppers you could hang a hat on, so that it was late afternoon before they drove out of Saginaw with their packages of books piled behind them, bound for the road.
It was a chilly spring day. Sagging clouds moved in a gray blur over a bluish silvery sky. The piebald kept slackening to a walk; Fainy clacked the reins continually on his caving rump and clucked with his tongue until his mouth was dry. At the first whack the piebald would go into a lope that would immediately degenerate into an irregular jogtrot and then into a walk. Fainy cursed and clucked, but he couldn’t get the horse to stay in the lope or the jogtrot. Meanwhile Doc Bingham sat beside him with his broad hat on the back of his head, smoking a cigar and discoursing: “Let me say right now, Fenian, that the attitude of a man of enlightened ideas, is,
A plague on both your houses
. . . I myself am a pantheist . . .
“Let’s see one,” said a little man with protruding ears who sat in the corner. He opened the book and started reading greedily. Fainy stood in the center of the car, feeling pins and needles all over. He caught a white glint in the corner of an eyeball as the little man looked down the line of cigars through the crinkly smoke. A touch of pink came into the protruding ears.
“Hot stuff,” said the little man, “but two dollars is too much.”
Fainy found himself stuttering: “They’re nnnot mmmine, sir; I don’t know . . .”
“Oh, well, what the hell . . .” The little man dropped two dollar bills in Fainy’s hand and went back to his reading. Fainy had six dollars in his pocket and two books left when he started back to the daycoach. Half way down the car he met the conductor. His heart almost stopped beating. The conductor looked at him sharply but said nothing.
Doc Bingham was sitting in his seat with his head in his hand and his eyes closed as if he were dozing. Fainy slipped into the seat beside him.
“How many did they take?” asked Doc Bingham, talking out of the corner of his mouth without opening his eyes.
“I got six bucks . . . Golly, the conductor scared me, the way he looked at me.”
“You leave the conductor to me, and remember that it’s never a crime in the face of humanity and enlightenment to distribute the works of the great humanists among the merchants and moneychangers of this godforsaken country . . . You better slip me the dough.”
Fainy wanted to ask about the dollar he’d been promised, but Doc Bingham was off on Othello again:
If after every tempest there come such calms as this
Then may the laboring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus high.
They slept late at the Commercial House in Saginaw, and ate a large breakfast, during which Doc Bingham discoursed on the theory and practice of book salesmanship. “I am very much afraid that through the hinterland to which we are about to penetrate,” he said as he cut up three fried eggs and stuffed his mouth with bakingpowder biscuit, “that we will find the yokels still hankering after Maria Monk.”
Fainy didn’t know who Maria Monk was, but he didn’t like to ask. He went with Doc Bingham round to Hummer’s livery stable to hire a horse and wagon. There followed a long wrangle between the firm of Truthseeker Inc., and the management of Hummer’s Livery Stable as to the rent of a springwagon and an elderly piebald horse with cruppers you could hang a hat on, so that it was late afternoon before they drove out of Saginaw with their packages of books piled behind them, bound for the road.
It was a chilly spring day. Sagging clouds moved in a gray blur over a bluish silvery sky. The piebald kept slackening to a walk; Fainy clacked the reins continually on his caving rump and clucked with his tongue until his mouth was dry. At the first whack the piebald would go into a lope that would immediately degenerate into an irregular jogtrot and then into a walk. Fainy cursed and clucked, but he couldn’t get the horse to stay in the lope or the jogtrot. Meanwhile Doc Bingham sat beside him with his broad hat on the back of his head, smoking a cigar and discoursing: “Let me say right now, Fenian, that the attitude of a man of enlightened ideas, is,
A plague on both your houses
. . . I myself am a pantheist . . .
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