Galusha the Magnificent | Page 2

that room three dollars and
seventy-two cents ahead. No wonder he sang as he drove homeward.
No wonder he looked quite care free. And, as a matter of fact, care free
he was, that is, as care free as one is permitted to be in this care-ridden
world. Down underneath his bright exterior there were a few cankers

which might have gnawed had he permitted himself to think of them,
but he did not so permit. Mr. Pulcifer's motto had always been: "Let the
other feller do the worryin'." And, generally speaking, in a deal with
Raish that, sooner or later, was what the other fellow did.
The fog and dusk thickened, Mr. Pulcifer sang, and the flivver wheezed
and rattled and splashed onward. At a particularly dark spot, where the
main road joined a cross country byroad, Raish drew up and climbed
out to light the car lamps, which were of the old- fashioned type
requiring a gas tank and matches. He had lighted one and was bending
forward with the match ready to light the other when a voice at his
elbow said:
"I beg your pardon, but--but will you kindly tell me where I am?"
It was not a loud, aggressive voice; on the contrary, it was hesitating
and almost timid, but when one is supposedly alone at twilight on the
East Wellmouth road any sort of voice sounding unexpectedly just
above one's head is startling. Mr. Pulcifer's match went out, he started
violently erect, bumping his head against the open door of the lamp
compartment, and swung a red and agitated face toward his shoulder.
"I--beg your pardon," said the voice. "I'm afraid I startled you. I'm
extremely sorry. Really I am."
"What the h-ll?" observed Raish, enthusiastically.
"I'm very sorry, very--yes, indeed," said the voice once more. Mr.
Pulcifer, rubbing his bumped head and puffing from surprise and the
exertion of stooping, stared wide-eyed at the speaker.
The latter was no one he knew, so much was sure, to begin with. The
first impression Raish gained was of an overcoat and a derby hat. Then
he caught the glitter of spectacles beneath the hat brim. Next his
attention centered upon a large and bright yellow suitcase which the
stranger was carrying. That suitcase settled it. Mr. Pulcifer's keen mind
had diagnosed the situation.

"No," he said, quickly, "I don't want nothin'--nothin'; d'you get me?"
"But--but--pardon me, I--"
"Nothin'. Nothin' at all. I've got all I want."
The stranger seemed to find this statement puzzling.
"Excuse me," he faltered, after a moment's hesitation, during which
Raish scratched another match. "I-- You see--I fear--I'm sure you don't
understand."
Mr. Pulcifer bent and lighted the second lamp. Then he straightened
once more and turned toward his questioner.
"I understand, young feller," he said, "but you don't seem to. I don't
want to buy nothin'. I've got all I want. That's plain enough, ain't it?"
"But--but-- All you want? Really, I--"
"All I want of whatever 'tis you've got in that bag. I never buy nothin'
of peddlers. So you're just wastin' your time hangin' around. Trot along
now, I'm on my way."
He stepped to the side of the car, preparatory to climbing to the driver's
seat, but the person with the suitcase followed him.
"Pardon me," faltered that person, "but I'm not--ah--a peddler. I'm
afraid I--that is, I appear to be lost. I merely wish to ask the way
to--ah--to Mr. Hall's residence--Mr. Hall of Wellmouth."
Raish turned and looked, not at the suitcase this time, but at the face
under the hat brim. It was a mild, distinctly inoffensive face--an
intellectual face, although that is not the term Mr. Pulcifer would have
used in describing it. It was not the face of a peddler, the ordinary kind
of peddler, certainly--and the mild brown eyes, eyes a trifle nearsighted,
behind the round, gold- rimmed spectacles, were not those of a sharp
trader seeking a victim. Also Raish saw that he had made a mistake in
addressing this individual as "young feller." He was of middle age, and

the hair, worn a little longer than usual, above his ears was sprinkled
with gray.
"Mr. Hall, of--ah--of Wellmouth," repeated the stranger, seemingly
embarrassed by the Pulcifer stare. "I--I wish to find his house. Can you
tell me how to find it?"
Raish took the cigar, which even the bump against the lamp door had
failed to dislodge, from the corner of his mouth, snapped the ash from
its end, and then asked a question of his own.
"Hall?" he repeated. "Hall? Why, he don't live in Wellmouth. East
Wellmouth's where he lives."
"Dear me! Are you sure?"
"Sure? Course I'm sure. Know him well."
"Oh, dear me! Why, the man at the station told me--"
"What station? The Wellmouth depot, do you