Chapter 5 THE RUMMAGE SALE

Summer vacation! Although the Field Day exercises, and the few Commencement festivities to which undergraduates are invited, were only four days past, classes and lessons seemed to the Quartet never to have existed; or if so, only in a dream. And it would be the same way when college began again in the fall. Summer, of a few days before, would be a dim memory of the past.

Though they had not heard from their examinations, they all felt reasonably confident of having passed successfully. At any rate, they had put the thought of them resolutely out of mind, following Peggy's, "one thing at a time, and when it's done, it doesn't do any good worrying about it." Those four days had been devoted to concentrated doing nothing.

"'Dulce far Niente' is such a pretty phrase it makes a virtue of loafing," said Priscilla.

And to this, for the time being, the other three agreed.

It was indirectly through Horace Hitchcock that the Friendly Terrace girls became interested in the Rummage Sale. For at the Field Day exercises Horace and Priscilla had happened to occupy seats in the Grand Stand next to Mrs. Sidney Vanderpool, and Horace, who seemed a prime favorite with that influential lady, had introduced Priscilla. Mrs. Vanderpool was in charge of a rummage sale to be held for the benefit of a local charity, and recognizing Priscilla's efficiency at a glance, she had promptly enlisted her under her banner. Since whatever concerned one of the Friendly Terrace quartette concerned all, Mrs. Vanderpool in securing Priscilla's co?peration had gained four new assistants.

It was Peggy, strange to say, whose enthusiasm it was hardest to kindle. "Somehow I never thought much of rummage sales," she owned. "Perhaps it is because rummage always reminds me of rubbish."

"But that's not fair, Peggy," Priscilla remonstrated. "Every family has a lot of things packed away that would be a blessing to people a little poorer."

Peggy reflected. "I can't think of anything we could spare that would be much of a blessing to any one."

"You haven't looked your things over with that thought in mind. Take Mrs. Vanderpool, for instance. Why, she'd discard a piece of furniture we would be proud to put in the parlor. A chair or sofa we'd think too shabby to have around would seem magnificent to your friends, the Bonds."

"I suppose there's something in that," owned Peggy.

"Of course there is. Thanks to the rummage sales, people get rid of a lot of stuff that's no further good to them; and other people get a great many things that they can use, and pay almost nothing for them."

"If they pay so little, why does Mrs. Vanderpool expect to make such a lot of money!" demanded Peggy.

"Look at the five-and-ten cent stores. Little profits count up, if you make sales enough. And in a rummage sale the expenses are so small that almost everything is profit."

Peggy began to think that her prejudice had been unreasonable, and she hunted the house over to find something worth contributing. But her search was far from satisfactory to herself. Mrs. Raymond was not one of the house-keepers who make a practice of hoarding useless articles. If a piece of furniture broke down, she had it mended if it were worth repairing; if not, she either gave it to some poor family who could make use of it, or else had it carted away by the rubbish collector. When Peggy's exhaustive search ended, she had succeeded in collecting for the sale only a few pieces of crockery and a carpet-sweeper which had outlived its halcyon days, though still capable of picking threads off the carpet.

The sale was to be held in a large vacant store in the down-town district, and was to last three days. All contributors had been asked to send their offerings several days in advance, and the Friendly Terrace girls, with a score of others, were on hand to assist in classifying the articles as they arrived, and were arranging them so as to make the best possible showing. As Peggy worked with the others, she was conscious of a return of her former misgivings. Undoubtedly among the contributions arriving by the wagon load there were many articles which would be useful to some one, but Peggy wondered who would be able to make use of the cracked pitchers and leaky kitchen utensils which were coming in such quantities. She looked disapprovingly at the loads of worn-out finery, displayed on the clothing table. In her opinion people who would buy second-hand evening dresses ought not to afford any. Of the flimsy evening frocks, most of them cut excessively low, some were spotted and soiled, while others were torn and generally bedraggled. Peggy made up her mind that under no circumstances would she be a saleswoman at that table.

The array of bric-a-brac aroused similar qualms. Looking the collection over, Peggy wondered at the things people had once regarded as ornamental. And even though they now realized their error, and were glad to rid themselves of these offenses against good taste, it seemed to Peggy rather hard that they should encourage the unenlightened to purchase such monstrosities under the mistaken notion that they were beautifying their homes. She was glad to turn to the book table where, if nowhere else, really worth-while bargains were offered. There were piles of the best magazines, many of them with the leaves uncut. There were odd volumes of classic writers, the most of which seemed in excellent condition. Peggy set herself to make the book table as inviting as possible, in hopes that the sales would be gratifying.

But while her original misgivings had returned in full force, Peggy said nothing about them. As far as she could see, they were unshared by any person present. The three girls who were her most intimate friends were working away enthusiastically, their bright faces unclouded by a doubt. Peggy had been a little startled by the discovery that Amy had deliberately left her out of the plot for painting Aunt Phoebe's sitting-room floor. It led her to wonder if perhaps she was over-particular.

"No one else seems to see anything out of the way," Peggy reflected. "It seems as if it must be all right, if I'm the only one who thinks it isn't. Oh, dear, I hope I'm not getting so critical and fussy that I imagine that things are wrong when they're not." Again her thoughts turned to Aunt Phoebe's painted floor. If Amy had asked her co?peration, she would have refused, and would have done her best to dissuade Amy from her reckless scheme. But the results had been all that could be desired. Aunt Phoebe had her new carpet, and was radiantly happy, while Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back had undoubtedly been taught a lesson he sorely needed. Strange to say, he did not seem to hold any grudge against Amy for taking sides against him. Amy, who had been out to admire the new carpet, reported that he had received her without any display of animosity, and unprotestingly had allowed Aunt Phoebe to serve her with ice cream. "It must be that I'm getting too particular," thought Peggy. "This time I won't say a word."

She broke her resolution, however, when the committee, who had been delegated to mark the prices of each article, set to work. Peggy had comforted herself by recalling Priscilla's assurance that everything would be sold at prices almost too small to mention. Instead, it seemed to the astonished Peggy that a good price was set on articles which from her standpoint were quite valueless. "O, don't you think that is too much?" She could not help exclaiming as one of the committee attached a price card to a three legged chair, which kept an upright position only by balancing itself against a rickety table.

The lady smiled upon her. "We'll have the prices rather high the first day," she replied. "Of course we want to make all we can. Then we'll reduce them for the second day, and on the third we'll take anything we can get."

Peggy did not return the smile. She was perplexed and troubled. She was beginning to realize that though these women were working for charity, they knew very little about the practical problems of the poor. She looked at the three-legged chair and wondered what she would do if she saw some reckless mother of a family preparing to squander real money on anything so worthless.

Although Peggy had expressed a wish to be stationed at the book table, Mrs. Vanderpool had insisted on placing her among the household furnishings. "You've got such a winning way, my dear," she said, "and you would be wasted on the books. Nobody buys books at a rummage sale except the people who would buy them anyway. I'm expecting great things from that persuasive tongue of yours." Peggy blushed guiltily, even while she smiled. She was glad Mrs. Vanderpool had such a complimentary idea of her persuasive powers and hoped she would not disappoint her.

From the hour of its opening, the rummage sale was crowded. Peggy's heart went out to the women who came pouring in as soon as the doors were opened to the public. Many of them had a distinctly foreign look. They came hatless, holding their money tightly, and looking about them with sharp, dark eyes in search of the bargains they coveted. In the evening the shop girls and factory workers were out in full force, and Peggy noticed uneasily how inevitably they gravitated toward the cast-off finery which had aroused her disapproval. She turned her back that she might not be a witness to the thriving business she suspected that department of doing.

But resolving to allow events to take their course without a protest, Peggy had failed to reckon with her inborn inability to shirk responsibility. The formula which acts as a sedative to so many consciences, "It's none of my business," had never proved effective in her case. And though she stuck to her resolution on the first day, the developments of the second proved too much for her. It was late on that afternoon when she noticed a flutter at one of the adjacent counters, and discovered to her astonishment, that the occasion of the excitement was an acquaintance of her own, no other than the husband of Elvira Bond.

Peggy had always felt a certain responsibility for Elvira, due to the fact that she had known the good-natured, slatternly girl ever since she could remember. Mrs. Bond had done the Raymonds' washing, off and on for many years, less because of her excellence as a laundress, than because she needed the work. Then Elvira had grown up, and taken her mother's place at the wash-tubs. The year of America's entry into the war she had unexpectedly married a young man considerably above her in the social scale, who had immediately been called to the colors.

Elvira's romance had been her awakening. To Peggy's attentive ear she had confided her dawning aspirations. "Joe likes things neat and clean," she explained, a little wistfulness in her voice. "Not cluttered up the way Ma keeps 'em. And I'd hate to make him ashamed of me."

"Of course you would," Peggy had cried. "And there's not a bit of need, Elvira. Why, of course you can keep your house as nice as anybody's. All you've got to do is to make up your mind that you will."

In the absence of the young husband Peggy had a watchful eye on Elvira. She had done her best to keep alive the girl's newly awakened ambitions, in spite of the discouraging home atmosphere. And after Joe's return she had frequently gone to see Elvira in the little home the young couple had purchased, and were paying for on the installment plan. In view of the girl's bringing up, it is hardly surprising that she had her relapses; but on the whole, Peggy was proud of her. Elvira worked hard, was developing a commendable thrift, and was extremely proud of her little home and of her baby.

It was at one of the bric-a-brac tables that Peggy discovered Elvira's husband, and he seemed, as far as she could judge from his manner and the manner of the women who were calling his attention to one thing after another, on the point of investing largely in the heterogeneous collection. But he happened to look over his shoulder in Peggy's direction, recognized her instantly, and came toward her, his face irradiated by a broad smile.

"Afternoon, Miss Peggy," he exclaimed. "I'm looking around. I'm thinking of buying a few little things to take home to the wife." He slapped his pocket. "It's pay-day, Miss Peggy, and the best ain't none too good for Elvira and the kid, I'll swear it ain't."

Peggy looked at him silently. It was the era of prohibition, yet an unmistakable odor radiated from Joe's person and confirmed the suspicion aroused by his unnatural manner. Peggy's heart sank.

All unconscious of her dismay, Joe was examining her stock. "What's that, Miss Peggy?" He indicated by a gesture the object which had aroused his interest.

"That is a churn, Joe."

"Fine! Fine! I've been wanting a churn ever since I got married. What's the damage?"

"But you can't want a churn, Joe; you don't keep a cow."

"No telling, Miss Peggy, I might buy a cow 'most any day." But his vacillating attention went to a battered table and he gave it a seemingly close examination. "I'll take it, Miss Peggy," he declared with a wave of his hand, "Just the thing for our front room."

"Why, Joe, Elvira has a table for the front room already."

"Can't have too much of a good thing, you know," grinned Joe. "Say I like the looks of that." Peggy's eyes followed his extended finger and she frowned. "Why, Joe, that's a coffee urn, and it wouldn't be suitable for a small family. Besides, it leaks."

"I'm bound to take home something, Miss Peggy," snickered Joe. "Nothing small about me. My pockets are pretty well lined, and you'll find me a good customer."

"Joe," said Peggy desperately, "Listen to me. You don't want any of this stuff in your pretty little home. It's not good enough."

"I guess I know what I want."

"No, Joe. You must excuse me, but to-day you don't know what you want. If you were quite yourself you'd never think of taking Elvira home a rickety table or a churn."

"You mean to tell me that I'm drunk." Joe's manner had lost its suavity. His eyes flashed as he regarded her.

"No, Joe, you're not drunk, but you've been drinking and you're not yourself. And I know by to-morrow you'll feel awfully sorry if you have carried a lot of rubbish into your dear little home."

For a moment Joe wavered between amiability and anger. His masculine pride was touched by the implication that he did not know his own mind, and alcohol had quickened his propensity to take offense. But on the other hand, there was something disarming in the way Peggy spoke of his wife and his home, and her smile was appealing. Mrs. Vanderpool had counted on her winning way and it was as effective as she had hoped, though Peggy did not apply it exactly as she had expected of her.

After a moment's hesitation, Joe capitulated. "I guess you're right, Miss Peggy. When a fellow's had a few drinks, most anything looks like a bargain. Guess this is a lot of junk."

"There's nothing here that you and Elvira want, I'm sure of that, Joe."

"Good-by, Miss Peggy."

"Good-by, Joe. Tell Elvira I'll be over to see her very soon."

Peggy drew a breath of relief when she saw Joe leave the building. But her congratulatory mood was not to last. For not long after Joe's departure, she became aware of Mrs. Vanderpool at her elbow.

"Well, you had a profitable customer at last," smiled the lady. "Wanted to buy you out, didn't he?"

The possibility of evasion did not occur to Peggy. She lifted her frank eyes. "He talked about buying a lot of useless things," she answered, "but of course I wouldn't let him. You see, he'd been drinking and he didn't really know what he wanted. And besides, I know his wife."

The blank expression with which Mrs. Vanderpool regarded her made plain the impossibility of their ever coming to an understanding. Peggy started to go on, and then lapsed into silence, realizing the uselessness of further explanations. Mrs. Vanderpool having relieved her mind by a long stare, turned majestically away, and Peggy heard her a little later, talking animatedly of some one who, it appeared, was totally lacking in the business instinct. Peggy thought she could come very near guessing the identity of the person referred to. But as she went on pointing out to possible purchasers the flaws in her wares, she made up her mind that the chance of being over-particular in matters of right and wrong was very trifling compared with the danger of not being particular enough.

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