CHAPTER VIIIANOTHER ATTEMPT AT COLLECTING
Although the trip planned for the Dobb’s Ferry territory had ended so disastrously, the girls were not discouraged. Dodo secured a license without any difficulty, and was equipped to drive Mr. Dalken’s car without being fined a second time. But the wise owner of the car considered it wiser to send Carl out on these excursions, instead of trusting to Fate to bring the girls back home again without broken bones or a damage suit.
Mr. Fabian had had a brilliant idea, too, after he heard his wife’s story of the country auction where the old antiques had been secured by Mrs. Tomlinson. He suggested that they subscribe to several country papers, both daily and weekly, and in that way they would learn of any vendue advertised in its columns.
Eagerly following his advice, the four girls—Nancy was not interested in antiques but was willing to go around with her friends when they huntedfor them—subscribed for the Yonkers papers, the White Plains papers, several weeklies in New Jersey, and others, in order to learn of any country auctions advertised for the following week.
Through this medium, they read of a country sale advertised for the following Thursday, to take place at an old farm home-stead way back in the hills of Westchester. The items mentioned included a mahogany four-poster bed, and other old bits.
Polly and Eleanor had not attended an auction since the days in Paris, and neither of them had ever heard of, or witnessed a back-farm country auction, so they were not prepared for what they really experienced.
Carl was detailed to drive them, that day, and Mrs. Fabian escorted them, in the seven-passenger car. They took the turnpike road as far as White Plains and then turned to the left to follow a country road that would lead past the farm.
The sale was advertised for eleven o’clock, but the girls did not arrive on the premises until twelve. Still no auctioneer was to be seen or heard. Groups of farmers stood around, gossiping about their crops that season, and their wives sat indoors exchanging notes on canning, new neighbors, or babies.
Polly gazed curiously at the types assembled for that sale, and whispered to Eleanor: “Wouldn’t you say these farmers had been picked up from Oak Creek ranches and dropped down here in this front door-yard?”
Eleanor smiled and nodded. Then she said in a low voice: “They don’t look as if they were here to buy. We seem to be the only folks here with a pocket-book.”
A young farmer who had been leaning against the old well now came forward to welcome the strangers who stood looking about.
“I be the clerk fer the auctionair, but he hain’t come, yit. His baby swallered a shet safety-pin an’ they had an orful time wid ippycak tryin’ to git it that way. Now the doctor’s thar sayin’ that stuff is all wrong. He’ll git the pin, all right, ’cause I swallered a quarter, onct, and he got it, but it costed me a hull dollar extra to pay him fer his docterin’. Ye’s kin go in and peer aroun’ to see ef you wants anything.”
Mrs. Fabian expressed her sympathy for the parents of the baby and said she knew just how frightened the mother must be.
“Not much!” was the clerk’s astonishing reply. “She’s young Kit Morehouse what ain’t got a grain of sense in her bean. This baby’s motherdied when it was a week old, and Lem had to have someone look affer it. Thar warn’t no sensible woman about what would hev him, ’cause he don’t make salt fer a red herrin’, seein’ his professhun is auctionin’ an’ folks ain’t sellin’ out like-as-much as they ust to be, years ago. But this crazy Kit was onny nineteen, with no fam’ly, er no payin’ job, so she hired out to take keer of the kid. Don’t it allus end like this? The gal marries the father an’ gets mad cause another woman’s kid is cryin’ around!”
The girls were intensely interested in this bit of local gossip, but Mrs. Fabian thought they had heard enough about “Kit,” so she bid the clerk good-by and started for the low one-story-and-a-half house.
The interior presented a different appearance from the home of Mrs. Tomlinson’s. Every conceivable object ever used in the house was brought out and placed in the front rooms. Women and children sat about on various sorts of seats, waiting for the sale to begin. As most of the assembly were neighbors and acquainted with each other, the entrance of Mrs. Fabian and her girls caused quite a surprise.
Audible whispers of “Who air they?” and “Where did they come from?” or “What d’yes’pose they come to bid on?” were heard on all sides as the strangers passed through the “settin’ room.”
The moment Mrs. Fabian’s party left the clerk, outside, he hurried over to the automobile where Carl sat enjoying a quiet smoke.
“Howde,” began Abner Clark, the clerk.
Carl removed his pipe and nodded nonchalantly.
“Do you-all hail from about these parts?” asked Abner.
“I should saynot!” declared Carl, emphatically.
“From whar abouts are you?” continued the clerk.
“New York City—and that’s some town, let me tell you.”
“Yeh—so I’ve heran say. How did yeh get to come here to this vendue?” persisted Abner.
“Idon’t know—I’m only the chauffeur. Why don’t you ask the ladies if you are so anxious to know?” Carl was growing angry.
“All right—no harm meant,” replied Abner, soothingly, as he turned away.
Carl resumed his pipe, and Abner strolled over to the group of men sitting on wheel-barrows, ploughs, chicken-coops, etc. With a furtive lookover his shoulder, to make sure the city driver was not listening, Abner began to explain to his interested friends who the strangers were.
But he had not quite ended his tale before an old buggy drove up and the auctioneer got out. He glanced over the assembled farmers with an appraising eye, and then carefully hitched the old nag to a tree. This done, he broke off a great chunk of tobacco from a cake kept in a blue paper, and popped it into his mouth.
Abner walked over to the white-washed fence to greet his superior. “How’s the kid?” were his first words.
“All right, now. He diden’ swaller the pin, after all. The doctor found it down inside his shirt, an’ it cost me a dollar besides all that good mustard and eppicac, fer nuthin’!”
“Well, well!” sympathized Abner, not knowing what would be best to say in such a delicate case.
“Did yuh keep all the folks about when I sent word over?” continued the auctioneer.
“Shure! An’ we’ve got some swell city buyers, this time.”
“City! You don’t mean anyone from the city’d want to buy old Morrisey’s trash?” exclaimed Lemuel, in disbelief.
“I dunno what they want, but thar’s their man what steers the autermobile,” and Abner directed a thumb over his left shoulder.
“Wall, wall! Come along; we’ll hurry up to get some of their coin afore they git tired awaitin’!” declared the wise man, as he made haste to reach the house.
Mrs. Fabian and the girls had made a cursory visit to the rooms on the ground floor, and while they stood in the small kitchen examining various old dishes and glassware in the cupboard, Polly spied a very narrow staircase leading to the attic.
“I’m going up to see if there’s anything up there,” said she. So without another word, she ran up the creaky steps.
The girls heard her walking overhead, and then heard her pull a heavy object across the floor. In another minute she came racing down the steps at a break-neck speed, her face all streaked with dirt and her dress covered with cob-webs and the dust of ages.
“Oh, folks! Do come up and see what I found in an old box under the eaves!”
They needed no second invitation, and soon all were up beside the box. There were many other empty boxes standing about and in some way this particular box had escaped the attention of Abner,who had taken the inventory of the contents of the house and barns.
Polly had removed the first object on top of the box which was an old woven coverlet in rare colorings of blue and white. In one corner was the name of the weaver and the date it was completed. Polly was not aware that old woven coverlets were considered very desirable by collectors, but she had read the date which showed the spread was more than a hundred years old, so she judged it was worth bidding on at the coming sale.
Directly under this woven coverlet was a white spread. It was very old and torn at the corners, but the rest of it was in good condition. Mrs. Fabian saw at once that it was a spread of the finest candle-wicking style she had ever seen. It must have dated back to the early part of the eighteenth century.
Under this white bed-spread were small bundles of hand-spun linen towels, yellow with age but in perfect condition as to wear. But the greatest find of all, in this box, were the old brasses in the bottom.
Wrapped in papers to keep them clean, Polly found a long-handled warming-pan; a set of fire-irons—the tongs, shovel, and andirons of the famous “acorn-top” design; and a funny old foot-warmer.A pair of ancient bellows was the last article found in the box, but the leather was so dry and old that pieces fell out when Polly tried to make the bellows work.
“I must go right down and tell that clerk about these wonderful things. They must have overlooked them when they listed all the other articles in the house,” said Mrs. Fabian.
Eleanor held her back and said: “You’d better not tell him the news in that excited manner. He’ll understand at once, that these things are desirable, and then we’ll have to pay well for them.”
“You’re right, Nolla!” laughed Nancy, and her mother admitted as much.
“Why couldn’t we just take them down to the kitchen and pile them on the table. No one will know that we want them, and should anyone ask what we were doing up here and by what right we carried them down from the attic, we can honestly say that Abner said we could go over the house and see if there was anything we liked to buy,” said Polly, with a collector’s instinct for not paying extortionate prices for what she wanted.
The girls laughed, but each one caught up some object, and having gathered all safely in their arms, they started down. The kitchen, being the least desirable room to visit in the farmer’s wife’sjudgment, no one was there when Mrs. Fabian and the girls returned to it. Their discoveries were piled on the old drop-leaf table, and they grouped themselves at the doorways to keep guard over the prizes.
A loud voice was shouting at the open front door, saying: “This are the terms of the sale: Everything bid on ’s got to be paid fer the same day and removed from the premises in twenty-four hours—all but th’ barn-stock. You’se kin take forty-eight hours fer them. I expecks everyone to pay cash fer anything they buy, ’cause I got enough trouble at that last sale at Hubbells’ when a lot of you folks bid on stuff an’ then went home an’ left it on my hands. Hubbell’s son had to give ’em away at last, and I lost all that commission. So, none of that, at this vendue!”
Some of the assembled people looked guilty, and the auctioneer rode rough-shod over their feelings. “Anudder thing: Don’t haggle on a cent! When I call out a decent bid on a thing, raise it a nickel, at least, if you wants it. This cent business—and at Hubbell’s vendue, some of you’se even bid half a cent at a time—makes me tired! If a thing ain’t wuth a cent more to yeh, then let it go to the other feller what wants it!”
The girls laughed at this frank statement ofsense, and Lemuel turned to see who had appreciated his speech. When he saw the city people Abner had mentioned, he felt warmed all through, for he felt sure he would earn some commissions that day.
“Our first number is in th’ kitchen. Ab, kin we get in thar, er had we better hold the stuff out here?” asked Lemuel.
“I can’t hold up the kitchen stove, kin I?” asked Abner, in an injured tone.
The people laughed heartily, Mrs. Fabian’s party joining more appreciatively than anyone.
“All right,” answered the auctioneer, in a matter-of-fact voice. “We’ll try to crowd in. But don’t anyone what don’t want to bid on kitchen stuff, come and use the room from others!”
It seemed that his very warning acted contrariwise for, to the girls, it looked as if everyone on the premises tried to crowd into that small room. Being first on the ground, they fared best for place. Mrs. Fabian mounted the steps leading to the attic and advised the girls to get up on the table, chairs, or other solid objects, to be able to look over the heads of the crowd.
“Now, Ab, what you got first?” asked the auctioneer.
Abner had his little book of items, and findingthe table the first number inventoried, he called out: “Deal table and contents!”
Now Polly stood on the table, and all the covers had been thrown upon it, also, so when Abner shouted out “table and contents” Lemuel laughed loudly.
“Say, one of them contents is a mighty pooty gal, I kin tell yuh! I’ll begin bidding myself, on such a bargain!”
The country-folks laughed wildly at such a fine joke, and Polly, eager to own the other valuable contents, smiled with them and nodded her head at the salesman. He was not aware that she meant she would bid, for his customers always shouted forth their bids. Then a man asked: “What sort of contents is thar?”
Abner pushed his way through the crowd to open the drawer in the table and enumerate the small ware mentioned as “contents,” when he saw, to his surprise, that there was a heap of covers on the table.
He picked them up and stared at them in dumbfounded amazement, then said: “Say, Lem, here’s them old bed-quilts we had sech a job huntin’ up. Whar the heck’d they come from, I’m sure I dunno!”
“You got ’em, eh? Well, they ain’t listed, so sell ’em fust. I’ll mark them an ‘A’ lot. Who wants to bid on a ole bed-spread?” called Lemuel.
Had the women-folk known of bedding to be sold in the kitchen, there would have been a mad rush for it. But most of them were waiting for the blankets and comfortables found in the two small bed-rooms annexed to the parlor. So but few were in the kitchen when the old candle-wicking spread was bid on by Polly, and knocked down to her for a dollar-ninety.
Eleanor got the blue and white woven coverlet for a dollar and a half, and Mrs. Fabian bought the linen towels “in a lot” for two dollars. The old brasses that were also listed as an “A” lot were knocked down as follows: Polly bought the ancient foot-warmer for sixty cents; Eleanor secured the warming-pan for a dollar, and Dodo, the set of fire-irons with acorn tops, for three dollars. These undreamed-of bargains elated the girls so that they lost all discretion for a time.
“Now that we’ve cleared them things out of our way, we’ll sell the table,” said Lemuel, and forthwith he gave the table to a farmer for fifty cents.
“What ’che got next, Ab?” asked he.
“Some kitchen dishes,” replied Abner, as he opened the cupboard and displayed several samples of blue ware.
Eleanor saw the familiar pattern of the pagodas and willows that are found on old willow-ware, and instantly decided that these must be rare antiques because they were found in the same house as the ancient objects just acquired by her and her friends. So she raised the first bid of ten cents for eight odd pieces, to a dollar.
The auctioneer gasped. He gazed at Eleanor and said faintly: “Did you bid a dollar?”
“Of course!”
“All right, Miss, you kin have them, but pay me now fer them, and don’t come back naggin’ me to say I stuck you wid cracked plates, and nicked saucers. You saw’d them afore you bid!”
Eleanor laughed, and handed over a dollar bill, but Mrs. Fabian tried to catch her eye to warn her not to bid recklessly on other things. Polly stood up on the table wondering why Eleanor got the old kitchen dishes.
The moment Lemuel had the dollar safely in his pocket, he remarked: “Gee! I’m goin’ out of this second-hand sellin’ and lay in a stock of ten-cent blue dishes to sell!”
One of the farmers haw-hawed and said:“That’s how Coolworth made so much money! Gettin’ so much cheap stuff and findin’ a pack of silly women to buy ’em.”
Eleanor tossed her head, but had she kept quiet she would not have been the object of pity she found herself, afterward. In self-justification of her purchase, she called out: “You people don’t know genuine old Wedgewood when you see it. I’ve got a big bargain in those eight plates!”
At that statement, a quiet young fellow, who had been standing about watching progress and noting the bids on a paper, laughed. “I don’t want anyone to say they was taken in at my folk’s sale; but I got’ta tell that young lady that I bought them blue dishesmyself, last year, at the tea-store in White Plains fer ten cents each.”
Even Polly had to join in the laugh at Eleanor’s expense now, and poor Nolla felt like selling herself for a nickel. But the auctioneer had scant time for jokes or reckless buyers as he was there for business. So he finished the kitchen and called them into the parlor. Here Polly secured a china dog such as were common sixty to eighty years ago; Eleanor got a real bargain, this time, in buying two century old flower-vases for fifty cents. Mrs. Fabian saw an old engraving of “Washington Crossing the Delaware,” as it wastaken from the wall behind the door, and offered for a quarter. On the spur of the moment she raised the bid five cents and got the picture which later proved to be one of the rare old originals, worth several hundred dollars.
Dodo ran up a pair of girandoles that stood on the narrow mantel-shelf in the front room, and finally got them for three dollars. Such an unheard-of price made the buyers look at her in pity, and Lemuel remarked:
“Well, some folks has more money than sense!”
Dodo’s friends laughed heartily at this criticism, but she cared little for them all, because she knew what she had obtained for her money.
The two bed-rooms were so small that few people could get in, so the auctioneer ordered Abner to carry the articles for sale, out on the lawn where everyone could see them. Had it not been for this sensible advice, Polly would never have seen or secured the fine old set of Staffordshire toilet-ware that was knocked down to her for four dollars.
It consisted of ewer in quaint shape, basin deep enough to be a huge punch-bowl, a soap-plate, a mug, and a commode. The rich deep coloring of the design on the china was lovely, and every piece was in good order.
The young man who had told the truth about the eight dishes from the tea-store, congratulated Polly and said: “That set has been in our family for more’n a hundred years. My grandmother used to keep it fer show, er when we had fine comp’ny comin’ to see us. That’s how it kept so good.”
“Oh, don’t you want to keep it, then?” asked Polly, regretfully.
“Nah, I’m goin’ west on the money I git outen this sale, an’ I’d ruther see someone what likes it own it, than any old clod-hopper about these parts!”
Polly felt sure the owner had not been lovingly treated by the people he glanced at as he spoke. But she learned, just before leaving the place that afternoon, that he felt so antagonistic against his neighbors because of their frank criticism of his habit of spending his inheritance.
Because of this unwise recklessness, he had had to mortgage the old farm, and when the proceeds of that had been spent, he had to sell out. “Perhaps his going west, where he would have to work hard for his living, would be his salvation, after this,” thought Polly.
Mrs. Fabian allowed the girls to watch the sale until the contents of the house were sold out andthen she suggested that they start back home. The bargains were carefully placed between the coverlets purchased, and then the buyers got in the car.
The country-people were all crowding to the barns to bid on stock and farm-utensils when Carl started the engine. With a last look at the little house where they had found their interesting antiques, the collectors left.
CHAPTER IXPOLLY’S HUNT IN ’JERSEY
The collectors took several long trips, after the vendue in Westchester County, but found nothing of value at any place.
Still they lived in hopes, and towards the last of October, Polly suggested that they try New Jersey for a change. A girl who attended Art Classes told Polly of several very old places within the vicinity of Springfield and Morristown—both old Revolutionary towns of historic fame.
So Carl drove up to the Fabian home early one Saturday morning, and Mrs. Fabian with her party, hurried out with luncheon and wraps, and were soon speeding away for the ferry-boat that would take them across the North River.
The girls had never been in New Jersey, and found much to admire in the picturesque, rolling land of the Jersey Hills. They left Newark behind, and drove along the Union Turnpike road until they reached the Forks. Here they turnedto the left and in a short time, were going through the ancient town of Springfield.
They were already past it, before Mrs. Fabian found what place it was. Then they laughed, and turned back again to visit a shop on the main street. Mrs. Fabian got out of the car and went in to question the proprietor.
“Do you know of any old houses, near here, where one can secure old bits of furniture, or antique objects?”
The man chuckled. “Say, Madam, if I have one person ask me that same question, I have dozens stop to question me. I tells them all, the same as I tells you now—the only antique I can send them to anywhere about Springfield, is that old church on the corner, where you can see the hole blown in the side by a cannon ball, when the British were here. And over yonder, you will find a burial ground where many old Indians are buried, with their stone arrow-heads and other trophies with them. The crumbling grey-stone slabs and the ancient tombs found there, will give you the dates. Some go as far back as two hundred, or two hundred and fifty years.”
Mrs. Fabian thanked him and returned to the girls to repeat the conversation she had had with the shop-keeper. They all declared for a visitto the old church, and then to the cemetery, so Carl drove back and they visited both places.
In the ancient burial ground, they read many queer epitaphs on the head stones, and some of these the girls copied down. Then they got back in the automobile and Carl was told to drive on to Morristown.
This place was found to be so dreadfully modern, that no hope of discovering antiques was left alive in their hearts. But it was noon and they were hungry, so they discussed the advisability of going to a lunch-room, or driving into the country and having the picnic lunch.
“As long as we brought such a nice luncheon with us, why stop at a hotel or restaurant to eat?” asked Polly.
“There really isn’t any sense in doing that, but there certainly isn’t any picnic place in this town,” declared Eleanor.
“Well, then let’s start out and find one away from here,” suggested Polly.
“I’ll make another proposition, girls,” said Mrs. Fabian. “Why not stop at that Public Library we just passed, and find out if there are any notable spots in the vicinity of this town, where we might find old houses or old objects?”
“Well, the idea is good, but really, Mrs. Fabian,this town impresses me most emphatically with this fact: that the residents have as much desire for antiques as we have; and most likely, they started in years before we ever were born, to rake over the country-side, which must have been rich with old furniture and other things from Washington’s days here, so as to collect all those things for themselves,” was Dodo’s sensible remark.
The others smiled at her practical words, and Mrs. Fabian agreed with her. “But it will do no harm to stop just a moment to ask the attendant at the Library if she knows of any place in New Jersey where we might indulge our craze of collecting.”
Carl then turned around and they were soon back at the Library. The girls remained in the car while Mrs. Fabian went indoors to ask questions of the agreeable lady at the desk.
“I’m sure you will find a few old bits, here and there, about the country-side,” said the lady, in reply to Mrs. Fabian’s questions. “In fact, my friend furnished her old-fashioned house that she recently bought of an old 1776 family, by driving about through the Mendham country, down through New Vernon and Baskingridge—all famous Revolutionary places, you know—and byvisiting places as far away as Bound Brook, Plainfield, and the country about Trenton. I was amazed at the number of old things she managed to secure.”
Being given a pencil sketch of what roads to follow to reach Mendham, or Baskingridge, Mrs. Fabian thanked her informer most graciously. Suddenly the lady said:
“Now that you are in town, why not drive down to a little auction room I’ve heard of, just off Washington Street, and see if you can find anything in that Paradise for old stuff?”
“We will! Where is it, and how do we get there?”
“The man’s name is Van Styne, and he used to be a magnet for attracting the oldest pieces to his store-rooms! People used to commission him when they wanted anything in particular, and in some super-natural manner, he used to have it for them in a few days’ time. It would have taken ordinary individuals years, with plenty of money and energy, to accomplish the same result.”
Again Mrs. Fabian thanked her interested informer, and left the library. The girls were told of the conversation and they all voted to go to Van Styne’s old auction rooms first, and then try to locate an old farm-house along the road toMendham, or in the opposite direction, towards Baskingridge.
The building where “Van Styne—Auctioneer and Appraiser” had his sign displayed, for the public’s guidance, was a long low place that had been used as the carriage house of “Liberty Stable” years before. The tiny windows, high up in a row along the front, were stall-marks that told what it had been in the past. Now it was an “Emporium” for all who needed second-hand furniture at a bargain; or for those who sought antiques of any kind, to add to their amateur collections.
Mr. Van Styne was a white-haired, long-whiskered, thin man who sat tilted back in a broken-through rush-bottom chair that had never had a bid at his weekly auctions, hence it was put to some use in his office to pay for storage. His feet were resting on the flat-table-desk in front of him, and he was sweetly snoring when the girls opened the door of the room.
Such an unheard of thing as customers in the early part of the afternoon, caused him to jump up and remove his aged straw hat that had been tilted over his eyes to keep out the sun-light.
“We came to see if we could find anything in your salesroom,” began Mrs. Fabian, noting thedust that lay thick on everything, and the heaped up motley collection of family possessions displayed in the long adjoining stable-room.
“What kind of furniture do you need?” asked he, stifling a yawn.
“Why, anything old enough to be interesting. We heard that you were a wizard in finding antiques for people.”
The proprietor disclaimed such power, and said with a grin that displayed several gaps in his yellowed teeth, “You can mosey about, out there, to your heart’s content. If you find anything likely, call me an’ I’ll tell you what it’s wuth.”
He waved his arm to the long stacked-up storeroom, and then sat down again. In another moment his feet were up on the desk and his hat tipped down over his eyes. His hands were calmly folded over his waist-coat and he settled down to snooze, once more.
The girls giggled aloud and hurried after Mrs. Fabian to keep from laughing outright at the ambitious salesman. They prowled about and pulled out lots of things and examined many other old articles, soiling their gloves and dresses, without finding a thing that was of any value.
Finally Polly dragged out an old walnut chest of drawers to see what was stored back of it, thatkept it so far away from the wall. She discovered a group of large, framed pictures standing against the wall, evidently forgotten by the auctioneer, as they were covered with a thick coating of dust.
“Come and help me lift these out, will you, Nolla?” called Polly, as Eleanor stood waiting for something new to look at.
In another moment, both girls were hauling out the mass of pictures, whose wires and screw-eyes were so entangled that to get at one, you had to drag all out at the same time.
“My goodness! Just look at our hands!” exclaimed Eleanor, holding up such dirty hands that Polly laughed.
“The result of digging!” said she, managing to separate one smaller frame from the others.
As she turned it over to study the picture, she was greatly disappointed to find it had an old, cheap, stained frame. The picture seemed nondescript to her. It was a scene of an old bridge with fine old trees on both banks of the river. Quaintly costumed people strolled along both sides of the stream, and a funny tower rose at the further end of the bridge. The colors were crude and primary—no fine shading or artistic handling to be seen. A title under the picture, and severalinscriptions in French at the left side of the bottom, were so stained and blurred as to be totally unreadable with the naked eye.
Meantime, Eleanor had managed to free the next frame, which was a huge affair of old mahogany. The glass was so dreadfully dusty that not a bit of the picture underneath could be seen. She looked about for something to use as a duster, and saw an old end of chenille curtain on the walnut dresser. This she used and wiped away as much of the dirt as would come off with hard work—the rest must have hot water and soap.
“Well, I declare! Look at this old engraving!” called she to the others. Polly was at hand, and saw that Eleanor had actually found a treasure.
Mrs. Fabian hurried across the room and took her magnifying glass from her handbag being always prepared with it in case of need to study signatures and other nearly effaced trade-marks.
The large engraving represented the Independence Hall at Philadelphia, and under that was the famous Declaration of Independence, with all the original signatures following. The picture of the Hall was engraved on a smaller bit of paper and had been mounted at the top of the printed matter. The engraving was signed by the engraver, anddated. Affidavits at the bottom of the parchment paper stated that this was one of the original documents made by Order of Congress for use in the Government Buildings so that the first original paper and signatures could be preserved as a relic, by the United States.
“Why, this wonderful old paper is more than a hundred and thirty years old!” exclaimed Mrs. Fabian amazed.
“My goodness me! How much do you suppose I shall have to pay to get it?” gasped Eleanor.
“I don’t know, but you really ought to shake that dirty rag thoroughly over the glass again, to hide what is under it,” advised Dodo, with astuteness.
The others laughed. But Polly had another suggestion to make. “Let’s see what else we can find in this stack of pictures. We will choose a number of them and then make an offer on the lot, as much as to say we need bargain-frames for other uses. This rare find of Nolla’s will be hidden in with the rest.”
“Polly’s idea is best. Because the old man will know that we wouldn’t buy a picture with all the dust covering the glass,” said Nancy Fabian.
A CRY FROM POLLY CAUGHT THEIR FULLEST ATTENTION.Polly’s Business Venture.Page 139
“What’s the little old one you’ve got in your hands, Polly?” now asked Mrs. Fabian.
“Oh, nothing much. It looks like an ugly little chromo printed before people knew how to use colors on printing-presses.”
Mrs. Fabian leaned over Polly’s shoulder to take a look, and puckered her forehead when she saw the yellowed paper and old stained edges of the picture.
“Polly, I verily believe that here you have something that Mr. Fabian has lectured on several times. Let me examine it.”
While the girls crowded about her, Mrs. Fabian placed the picture, face downwards, on the table near by and tried to draw out the old headless tacks driven in to hold the backboard snugly in its place.
“Well, whoever framed this picture did it for all time!” exclaimed she, breaking several fingernails and tearing the skin on her hands in the attempt to loosen the fine steel nails.
“Here! I’ve found an old pair of broken scissors in this desk—let’s use them to clinch the nails and force them out,” said Nancy, handing her mother the shears.
With this assistance, Mrs. Fabian soon had thenails out and then carefully removed the old sections of thin boards. Under the boards was a yellowed newspaper, folded neatly, and so wedged in at the edges of the frame that no dust could work a way through to the picture. Without a thought of the paper, Mrs. Fabian took it out and expected to see the back of the picture. Instead, she found a yellow-stained letter written to Paul Revere Esq. and signed by one of the famous men of the Revolution. It was a personal letter of that time, and had been used to paste over a crack in the back of the picture.
“Why—why! How very wonderful!” breathed Mrs. Fabian, as she stared at the old letter.
“What is it—anything valuable?” asked the girls.
“A genuine letter written to Paul Revere! Now that I think of it, girls, Paul Revere lived in Morristown and his home is still intact on De Hart Street, I believe. This old picture must have come from his house; or in some way, this letter found its way into someone else’s hands and was used at that time for scrap paper to mend this picture. Now let’s see what the picture is.”
But a cry from Polly, who had picked up theold newspaper and now had opened it wide, caught their fullest attention.
“Oh, oh! Isn’t this too funny for anything! Listen and I will read it.” Then Polly read aloud an advertisement in the tiny old newspaper, of a Squire at Baskingridge who wished to sell a healthy, young negro wench of unquestionable pedigree. Price and particulars would be given any interested buyer.
“Polly!” chorused her audience, in surprise. “That paper must be as old as the letter!”
“And see, girls!” added Mrs. Fabian. “It has great heavy black borders on the outside. What for, Polly?”
Polly turned over the sheet with utmost care, as it was so dry and brittle, and to the speechless astonishment of them all, it showed that the mourning bands were used for the death of George Washington. The entire front page was devoted to the news of his demise which had occurred the day before going to press. His fame, and value to the United States, were spoken of, and other features of his life were touched upon. His picture, printed from an old wood-cut, headed the page. All the spelling was such as was common at that time with the letter “e” tacked on when possible and the old English “f’s” were used for“s’s” and long-stemmed “p’s,” and high-browed “a’s” and “i’s,” were formed to show readers that the writer and editor was a well-educated man.
“Oh my! Must we fold it up and put it back of that board again?” sighed Polly, finally.
“If you want a bargain, that is what you’d better do,” returned Mrs. Fabian.
“Maybe the picture is as old as the paper,” ventured Polly.
The thought of the picture had completely vanished from the mind of Mrs. Fabian when she saw the rare old newspaper; but now she quickly picked up the article and turned it over. The magnifying glass was once more brought to bear upon the subject, and after several minutes of inspection,—minutes of impatient hesitation on the part of the girls,—she looked up bewildered with her discovery.
“Polly, this is really the missing picture that will complete the set that is on exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum, in New York. It is one of the famous color-prints made in France about the sixteenth century, and the subject is the famous Bridge at Avignon. This is worth thousands of dollars, dear, and I hesitate to tell you what to offer for it.”
Polly would have taken the rare picture outto the still sleeping man and offered him a sum that would have made him sit up and investigate the matter for himself. But clever Dodo advised another method.
“If you offer more than the old frame is actually worth, when you say you will pay so much for the frames—he will see right off that there’s a ‘nigger in the woodpile.’ Let’s tangle up a few of these old black-walnut frames with the two valuable pictures, and I’ll bargain for you.”
“Better let Mrs. Fabian bargain—you know how she got the candle-sticks in exchange for a two-dollar ‘bankit’ lamp,” Eleanor reminded them.
“I’ll do it, while you girls keep on poking about as if to find other things,” declared Mrs. Fabian. “Here, Polly, let us fix this frame up exactly as it was before, and I’ll take four out of the pile and place them, one on top of the other, upon this dresser, and then call the man out to quote me a price on the lot.”
This was carefully done, dust being shaken out of the old curtain so that the glass was again coated, and then dust was shaken over the back where the board had been removed and cleaned.
A dreadful lithograph showing a string of fish, framed in a wide gilt affair, was one that waschosen for the group. An oval frame with a woman’s photograph in it, was another selected. Then the four were arranged: The large engraving at the bottom, the fish next, then the little old relic, and on top, the oval frame. All four appeared dirty and insignificant as they lay on the top of the dresser; and to finish the work, Polly used the chenille rag to gather up as much dust as possible from the filthy floor, and shook it vigorously over all the frames. Such a choking and coughing as ensued made them separate in haste, for fear the noise would make the auctioneer come out to enquire.
But he was too deeply concerned with some pleasant dream to awake to business, before his usual time for the afternoon siesta had ended, so Mrs. Fabian went out to rouse him.
“Eh, what did you say?” exclaimed he, jumping up.
“I want you to tell me how much are a few picture-frames which we found in a corner.”
“Oh, anything you like. How much do you think they are wuth?” was his reply.
Mrs. Fabian smiled pleasantly. “That is not what I said. You are the salesman and I the buyer. You should state a price.”
“Um—ah!” yawned Mr. Van Styne at this, and stretched his arms out over his head. “I s’pose that ends my nap, eh?”
He shuffled out of the office after Mrs. Fabian and went into the store-house. When he saw the girls poking about amongst the old chairs, bureaus, and motley collection of furniture, he laughed, and said: “That’s right! Find all the old bargains you can. I’m your man to sell them cheap to you.”
Had he but known what he was about to do!
Mrs. Fabian led him down to the corner where the pile of four pictures were waiting on the dresser, and said: “These are the four I want a price on. The frames are all in good order and the glasses are not cracked at all.”
Mr. Van Styne took a pair of old steel-rimmed specs from the vest-pocket over his heart, and pushed them upon his thin nose. He picked up the top oval frame, blew off the dust and laughed at the homely face that stared out at him. He turned to Mrs. Fabian with a twinkle in his eyes and said, jokingly:
“Now, if that gal was your relation and you wanted her ugly photograph that bad, I’d say the hull thing was wuth a dollar to you. But seein’it’s fifty year old, and you ain’t near that, yet, I will sell her fer a quarter. The glass is wuth that, I reckon.”
He placed it face down beside the other three pictures. “Now this one,” taking up the rare old print with the newspaper packed in the back, “Ain’t wuth a darn, so why do you pick it out?”
“But the glass is the right size and will cost me more to order, than I can get it for of you,” remarked Mrs. Fabian, anxiously, while the girls held their breath.
The old auctioneer heard the note of anxiety in her tone and peered over his specs to study her guileless expression. She instantly guarded herself, when she saw his look, and so he saw only a nice lady who was now picking up the fish-picture.
“And this dining-room picture; how much will you take forit. Why not give me a job-lot price and I’ll see. I may as well pack four as two in the automobile.”
But Mr. Van Styne had not known there was an automobile; and he was wondering now, why people with a car should come in and pick out a few picture glasses to save money. He glanced over the last picture which was the large engraving, and then turned it over to look at its back.
“That’s a mighty big sheet of glass in that one. That glass alone, cost about a dollar-forty. Then the frame’s a good hard-wood frame, too. I’ll look up my books and see who sent them pictures in for sale. Then I can see if they put a figger on them.”
He made notes of the chalk numbers marked on the backs of the picture-boards and then started for his office. Mrs. Fabian, with sinking heart, followed at his heels.
“If he looks up his records and finds they came from the old house of Paul Revere and his descendants, he will never sell them at a decent price,” thought she, impatiently.
She sat opposite the old man while he fumbled the pages of his book and slowly glanced down the entries, his bent fore-finger pointing to each item carefully as he read.
“Um! Here it is: Number 329, came from Sarah Dolan, who moved to a smaller flat last Spring. From this entry I see that all them seven pictures came from her. Do you happen to know her?”
Mr. Van Styne glanced up at his companion.
She shook her head, and he said, closing the book, “Why, Sally Dolan was cook fer the Revere boys, and when they broke up, she started abordin’ house down on Morris Street. Then she took rheumatiz and was that crippled, she couldn’t get about the kitchen no more, so she gave up. Her boys manage to keep her now, and she takes things easy. But she sure was a good cook!”
Much as Mrs. Fabian would have liked to question the old man about the Revere boys she feared he might remember that the cook was given a lot of old pictures when the boys “broke up”, so she turned the subject adroitly.
“Well, I’ll go and see what the girls have found out there, I guess. But I wish you’d fix a price on those four frames.”
“Lem’me see, now. Sal Dolan didn’t set no price, and if I say five dollars for the four, would you take ’em?”
“Dear me!” objected Mrs. Fabian, craftily. “The large one you said was worth about a dollar-thirty, and the fish-picture a dollar. That leaves two dollars and seventy cents for the other two. Isn’t that pretty high for them?”
“But that fish picture makes a fine dinin’ room piece, especially if you could get the mate what is a brace of quails.”
“Oh well, rather than jew you down, I’ll take them, if you will take the trouble to make me out a receipt for the four.”
“Ain’t this a cash sale?” queried the man, wonderingly.
“Of course, but two of them are for friends. I only intend keeping the other two. I want them, to have the bill to show, you see.”
Thereupon Mr. Van Styne wrote out the bill on a scrap of paper and receipted it, and then counted the five one dollar bills Mrs. Fabian had paid him. “Ten per cent fer me and the rest for Sally,” he added as he rolled fifty cents inside four one dollar bills and pocketed the other fifty cents.
Mrs. Fabian was about to go for the pictures, when Polly came out. “I want to ask the auctioneer how much this little box and mirror are?” and she showed a lovely little Empire dressing-mirror to him. It was scratched and had been varnished, but its former beauty could be quickly restored, for the form and material were good as ever.
“I’m told that is a real antique. That piece come from the old Revere place, too. Mrs. Dolan says she heard it was used by the boy’s grandmother. But I don’t know what to charge.”
“I’ll give you ten dollars for it,” eagerly said Polly.
“Ten dollars!” gasped the man, sinking back in his desk-chair.
Mrs. Fabian tried to signal Polly, but the girl was too intent on securing the gem. Then Mrs. Fabian said to the man:
“Dear me! The child has more money than brains, eh?” and laughed heartily.
“I ain’t so sure about that. She certainly knows a good thing,” returned Mr. Van Styne. Then he said to Polly: “Will you carry it right along with you, if I sell it for ten?”
“Of course!” declared she, and the sale was made.
“I guess we’d better be going, Polly,” suggested Mrs. Fabian, now. This told the girl that the deal over the pictures had been consummated, but she did not ask questions then.
Mrs. Fabian went back to gather up her four precious pictures, and had the other girls help her carry them away. Then they bid the good old man good-by and started off.
“Come again, when you have more time to poke around,” said he, as he stood on the doorstep watching them walk towards the car which was waiting a short distance down the street.
“We certainly will, and if you get anythingreally antique in the place at any time, drop me word, or telephone to the address I left on your desk, just now,” said Mrs. Fabian.
Once the hunters were safely on the way to New York, the girls importuned Mrs. Fabian to tell them the story of the pictures, but she laughingly remarked:
“Do you know, we forgot all about our luncheon! Poor Carl must be famished!”
“Not much,” retorted Carl. “I went to that quick lunch-room across from the old junk-shop, and got the best dinner for forty cents that I ever tasted. But we will stop for a picnic, when we reach the country, if you say so.”
“No, indeed! We’ll eat as we drive along, Carl,” said Mrs. Fabian, then turning to the girls, she told the tale[A]of the old pictures and what she paid for them.
“Why!” gasped the wondering girls. “It can’t be possible!”
At that, Mrs. Fabian produced the bill of sale and said: “I got this in case there ever should be any dispute over the legality of this negotiation. The two awful pictures we can give to somefamily along the road, but the two precious ones we will cherish as if they were the Koh-i-noor Diamond.”
When the Ashbys and Mr. Fabian heard the story, and saw the validity of the two pictures, they sat astounded. Mr. Fabian then said:
“Polly really ought to immortalize her name by presenting this missing scroll to the Metropolitan Museum, but she can keep the letter and newspaper. That ought to be worth the price she paid for the ‘glass’.”
“That’s just what I’ll do, Mr. Fabian. I would never feel happy if Ikepta thing that is considered so rare, and has been sought for by the Museum’s collectors.”
So Polly Brewster’s name is to be found ticketed as the donor of the twelfth valuable picture in that set.