Maidas Little Shop | Page 8

Maida and Billy sat down beside the heap and examined the things, one by one. Maida had never seen such toys in her life--so cheap and yet so amusing.
It was hard work to keep to business with such enchanting temptation to play all about them. Billy insisted on spinning every top--he got five going at once--on blowing every balloon--he produced such dreadful wails of agony that Granny came running downstairs in great alarm--on jumping with every jump-rope--the short ones tripped him up and once he sprawled headlong--on playing jackstones--Maida beat him easily at this--on playing marbles--with a piece of crayon he drew a ring on the floor--on looking through all the books--he declared that he was going to buy some little penny-pamphlet fairy-tales as soon as he could save the money. But in spite of all this fooling, they really accomplished a great deal.
They found very few eatables--candy, fruit, or the like. Mrs. Murdock had wisely sold out this perishable stock. One glass jar, however, was crammed full of what Billy recognized to be "bulls-eyes"--round lumps of candy as big as plums and as hard as stones. Billy said that he loved bulls-eyes better than terrapin or broiled live lobster, that he had not tasted one since he was "half-past ten." For the rest of the day, one of his cheeks stuck out as if he had the toothache.
They came across all kinds of odds and ends--lead pencils, blank-books, an old slate pencil wrapped in gold paper which Billy insisted on using to draw pictures on a slate--he made this squeak so that Maida clapped her hands over her ears. They found single pieces from sets of miniature furniture, a great many dolls, rag-dolls, china dolls, celluloid dolls, the latest bisque beauties, and two old-fashioned waxen darlings whose features had all run together from being left in too great a heat.
They went through all these things, sorting them into heaps which they afterwards placed in boxes. At noon, Billy went out and bought lunch. Still squatting on the floor, the three of them ate sandwiches and drank milk. Granny said that Maida had never eaten so much at one meal.
All this happened on Saturday. Maida did not see the little shop again until it was finished.
By Monday the place was as busy as a beehive. Men were putting in a furnace, putting in a telephone, putting in a bathroom, whitening the plaster, painting the woodwork.
Finally came two days of waiting for the paint to dry. "Will it ever, ever, EVER dry?" Maida used to ask Billy in the most despairing of voices.
By Thursday, the rooms were ready for their second coat of paint.
"Oh, Billy, do tell me what color it is--I can't wait to see it," Maida begged.
But, "Sky-blue-pink" was all she got from Billy.
Saturday the furniture came.
In the meantime, Maida had been going to all the principal wholesale places in Boston picking out new stock. Granny Flynn accompanied her or stayed at home, according to the way she felt, but Billy never missed a trip.
Maida enjoyed this tremendously, although often she had to go to bed before dark. She said it was the responsibility that tired her.
To Maida, these big wholesale places seemed like the storehouses of Santa Claus. In reality they were great halls, lined with parallel rows of counters. The counters were covered with boxes and the boxes were filled with toys. Along the aisles between the counters moved crowds of buyers, busily examining the display.
It was particularly hard for Maida to choose, because she was limited by price. She kept recalling Mrs. Murdock's advice, "Get as many things as you can for a cent a-piece." The expensive toys tempted her, but although she often stopped and looked them wistfully over, she always ended by going to the cheaper counters.
"You ought to be thinking how you'll decorate the windows for your first day's sale," Billy advised her. "You must make it look as tempting as possible. I think, myself, it's always a good plan to display the toys that go with the season."
Maida thought of this a great deal after she went to bed at night. By the end of the week, she could see in imagination just how her windows were going to look.
Saturday night, Billy told her that everything was ready, that she should see the completed house Monday morning. It seemed to Maida that the Sunday coming in between was the longest day that she had ever known.
When she unlocked the door to the shop, the next morning, she let out a little squeal of joy. "Oh, I would never know it," she declared. "How much bigger it looks, and lighter and prettier!"
Indeed, you would never have known the place yourself. The ceiling had been whitened. The faded drab woodwork had been painted white.