“No,” said the grocer, without hesitation, “we don’t stock it.”
“What will he deny next?” asked Mrs. Greyes under her breath. What made it seem so much worse was the fact that Mr. Scarrick had quite recently presided at a lecture on Savonarola.
Turning up the deep astrachan collar of his long coat, the stranger swept out of the shop, with the air, Miss Fritten afterwards described it, of a Satrap proroguing a Sanhedrim. Whether such a pleasant function ever fell to a Satrap’s lot she was not quite certain, but the simile faithfully conveyed her meaning to a large circle of acquaintances.
“Don’t let’s bother about the 3:12,” said Mrs. Greyes; “let’s go and talk this over at Laura Lipping’s. It’s her day.”
When the dark-faced boy arrived at the shop next day with his brass marketing bowl there was quite a fair gathering of customers, most of whom seemed to be spinning out their purchasing operations with the air of people who had very little to do with their time. In a voice that was heard all over the shop, perhaps because everybody was intently listening, he asked for a pound of honey and a packet of quail seed.
“More quail seed!” said Miss Fritten. “Those quails must be voracious, or else it isn’t quail seed at all.”
“I believe it’s opium, and the bearded man is a detective,” said Mrs. Greyes brilliantly.
“I don’t,” said Laura Lipping; “I’m sure it’s something to do with the Portuguese Throne.”
“More likely to be a Persian intrigue on behalf of the ex-Shah,” said Miss Fritten; “the bearded man belongs to the Government Party. The quail-seed is a countersign, of course; Persia is almost next door to Palestine, and quails come into the Old Testament, you know.”
“Only as a miracle,” said her well-informed younger sister; “I’ve thought all along it was part of a love intrigue.”
The boy who had so much interest and speculation centred on him was on the point of departing with his purchases when he was waylaid by Jimmy, the nephew-apprentice, who, from his post at the cheese and bacon counter, commanded a good view of the street.
“We have some very fine Jaffa oranges,” he said hurriedly, pointing to a corner where they were stored, behind a high rampart of biscuit tins. There was evidently more in the remark than met the ear. The boy flew at the oranges with the enthusiasm of a ferret finding a rabbit family at home after a long day of fruitless subterranean research. Almost at the same moment the bearded stranger stalked into the shop, and flung an order for a pound of dates and a tin of the best Smyrna halva across the counter. The most adventurous housewife in the locality had never heard of halva, but Mr. Scarrick was apparently able to produce the best Smyrna variety of it without a moment’s hesitation.
“We might be living in the Arabian Nights,” said Miss Fritten, excitedly.
“Hush! Listen,” beseeched Mrs. Greyes.
“Has the dark-faced boy, of whom I spoke yesterday, been here today?” asked the stranger.
“We’ve had rather more people than usual in the shop today,” said Mr. Scarrick, “but I can’t recall a boy such as you describe.”
Mrs. Greyes and Miss Fritten looked round triumphantly at their friends. It was, of course, deplorable that anyone should treat the truth as an article temporarily and excusably out of stock, but they felt gratified that the vivid accounts they had given of Mr. Scarrick’s traffic in falsehoods should receive confirmation at first hand.
“I shall never again be able to believe what he tells me about the absence of colouring matter in the jam,” whispered an aunt of Mrs. Greyes tragically.
The mysterious stranger took his departure; Laura Lipping distinctly saw a snarl of baffled rage reveal itself behind his heavy moustache and upturned astrachan collar. After a cautious interval the seeker after oranges emerged from behind the biscuit tins, having apparently failed to find any individual orange that satisfied his requirements. He, too, took his departure, and the shop was slowly emptied of its parcel and gossip laden customers. It was Emily Yorling’s “day,” and most of the shoppers made their way to her drawing-room. To go direct from a shopping expedition to a tea party was what was known locally as “living in a whirl.”
Two extra assistants had been engaged for the following afternoon, and their services were in brisk demand; the shop was crowded. People bought and bought, and never seemed to get to the end of their lists. Mr. Scarrick had never had so little difficulty in persuading customers to embark on new experiences in grocery wares. Even those women whose purchases were of modest proportions dawdled over them as though they had brutal, drunken husbands to go home to. The afternoon had dragged uneventfully on, and there was a distinct buzz of unpent excitement when a dark-eyed boy carrying a brass bowl entered the shop. The excitement seemed to have communicated itself to Mr. Scarrick; abruptly deserting a lady who was making insincere inquiries about the home life of the Bombay duck, he intercepted the newcomer on his way to the accustomed counter and informed him, amid a deathlike hush, that he had run out of quail seed.
The boy looked nervously round the shop, and turned hesitatingly to go. He was again intercepted, this time by the nephew, who darted out from behind his counter and said something about a better line of oranges. The boy’s hesitation vanished; he almost scuttled into the obscurity of the orange corner. There was an expectant turn of public attention towards the door, and the tall, bearded stranger made a really effective entrance. The aunt of Mrs. Greyes declared afterwards that she found herself subconsciously repeating “The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold” under her breath, and she was generally believed.
The newcomer, too, was stopped before
