Kilo | Page 8

Mrs. Bell looked at each other blankly, and shook their heads.
Mrs. Smith named ALL the magazines. She had contributed stories to most of them, but not one was known, even by name, to her inquisitors. One shy old lady asked faintly if she had ever heard of Mr. Tweed. She thought she had heard of a Mister Tweed of New York, once.
Then, quite suddenly, Mrs. Smith remembered her own brother, the great Marriott Nolan Tarbro, whose romances sold in editions of hundreds of thousands, and who was, beyond all doubt, the greatest living novelist. Kings had been glad to meet him, and newsboys and gamins ran shouting at his heels when he walked the streets.
"How silly of me," she said. "You must have heard of my brother, Marriott Nolan Tarbro, you know, who wrote 'The Marquis of Glenmore' and 'The Train Wreckers'?"
Mrs. Bell coughed apologetically behind her hand.
"I'm not very littery, Mrs. Smith," she said kindly, "but mebby Mrs. Stein knows of him. Mrs. Stein reads a lot."
Mrs. Stein, whose sole reading was the Bible and such advertising booklets as came by mail, or as she could pick up on the counter of the drugstore, when she went to Kilo, moved uneasily. For years she had had the reputation of being a great reader, and brought face to face with the sister of an author she feared her reputation was about to fall.
"What say his name was?" she asked.
"Tarbro," said Mrs. Smith, as one would mention Shakespeare or Napoleon. "Tarbro. Marriott Nolan Tarbro."
"Well," said Mrs. Stein slowly, turning her head on one side and looking at the spot on the ceiling from which the plaster had fallen, "I won't say I haven't. And I won't say I have. When a person reads as much as what I do, she reads so many names they slip out of memory. Just this minute I don't quite call him to mind. Mighty near, though; I mind a feller once that peddled notions through here name of Tarbox. Might you know him?"
"No," said Mrs. Smith, "I haven't the honor."
"I thought mebby you might know him," said Mrs. Stein. "His business took him 'round considerable, and I thought mebby it might have took him to New York, and that mebby you might have met him."
Mrs. Bell sighed audibly.
"It's goin' to be an awful trial to Susan if she can't go," she said; "but I dunno WHAT to say. Seems like I oughtn't to say 'go,' an' yet I can't abear to say 'stay.'"
"I MUST have Susan," said Mrs. Smith, putting her arm about the girl. "I know you can trust her with me."
"Clementina," said Mr. Bell suddenly, "why don't you leave it to the minister? He'd settle it for the best. Why don't you leave it to him? Hey?"
"Well, bless my stars," said Mrs. Bell, brightening with relief, "I'd ought to have thought of that long ago. He WOULD know what was for the best. I'll ask him to-morrow."
To-morrow was the picnic day.
As Mrs. Smith led the way for Eliph' Hewlitt, the minister left the group of women who had clustered about him, and walked toward her.
"Sister Smith," he said, in his grave, kind way, "Sister Bell tells me you want to carry off our little Susan. You know we must be wise as serpents and gentle as doves I deciding, and"--he laid his hand on her arm--"though I doubt not all will be well, I must think over the matter a while. Welcome, brother," he added, offering his hand to Eliph' Hewlitt.
The little book agent shook it warmly.
"'I was a stranger and ye took me in,'" he said glibly. "Fine weather for a picnic."
His eyes glowed. To meet the minister first of all! This was good, indeed. Years of experience had taught him to seek the minister first. To start the round of a small community with the prestige of having sold the minister himself a copy of Jarby's Encyclopedia made success a certainty.
He took the oilcloth-covered parcel from beneath his arm, and handed it to the minister gently, lovingly.
"Keep it until the picnic is over," he said. "I'm a book agent. I sell books. THIS is the book I sell. Take it away and hide it, so I can forget it and be happy. Don't let me have it until the picnic is over. PLEASE don't!"
He stretched out his arms in freedom, and the minister smiled and led the way toward the place where a buggy cushion had been laid on the grass as his seat of honor.
"I will retain the book," said the minister, with a smile, "although I don't think you can sell the book here. My brethren in Clarence are not readers. I read little myself. We are poor; we have no time to read. Except the Bible, I know