“What’s wanted?” asked Mr. Whitley with crisp, rising inflection. He had come up and was standing beside Jerome, his hands on his hips, looking more than ever like an intellectual colossus.  
“Why, I’ll explain a little more about it,” replied the customer, turning from Jerome to the old man. “My name’s Xenophon Curry—you may have heard of me. Here’s my card—here’s two of ’em.” And he drew forth a wallet from the pocket of a vast expanse of black and white checked woolen vest and took from it two generous bits of pasteboard, which he handed across with a little bustling gesture. “You see, I’ve rented a schooner called the Skipping Goone—nice name, kind of, isn’t it? As I was just explaining to your young man here, I don’t know just how to go about it to get[24] a crew and so forth, and I suppose—good Lord, yes!” he laughed, “first of all there will have to be a captain! Well, it will come right somehow. I always manage to blunder through. I guess it must be part of my luck!”
 
Both Jerome and Mr. Whitley were absorbed in the customer’s card, and the latter finally observed: “I see you head an opery troupe!”
 
“Yes,” replied Xenophon Curry, drawing in deeply and expanding his ribs exactly the way his singers always did when they were going to attack a high note. “We’ve just closed a triumphant tour of the States, and now,” he added, with a little fling of his head which can only be described as magnificent, “we’re going to keep right on—west! That’s where the schooner comes in, do you see? I wouldn’t say—no, I wouldn’t say but we might go clear round the world! It’s a wonderful thought, in a way, isn’t it?”
 
The mouths across the counter were dropped in astonishment; but Mr. Whitley, being so ancient a pupil in the school of life, possessed rather more ballast to withstand the puff of unexpected gales than did his clerk. He recovered first, and made a very smart remark indeed to the effect that he wouldn’t so much mind going along himself if there were as many pretty chorus girls as some shows carried. He winked naughtily. And of course this remark was but the forerunner of one of his bursting, infectious laughs, which, once released, ran along quite placidly. Laughter never seemed to discomfit the junior partner in the slightest degree.
 
When he had sobered sufficiently, Mr. Whitley began an inventory of commission houses. “There’s Silvio’s over the way, and Chiappa’s in Mission street—couldn’t go far wrong. Your steward, when you find one, will know where to get the best prices.”
 
“How about Gambini’s?” asked Jerome.
 
“Oh, there’s no end of ’em,” remarked the old man opulently. For it was, in truth, a neighborhood abounding in lures for the marketing steward. Chicken feathers[25] were forever wafting on the whiff of limes and pineapples, and when it rained, mouldy oranges sped down on the muddy breast of gutter streams.
 
Presently the junior partner felt it incumbent on him to do a bit more honour to the prodigiousness of what the customer had disclosed. “An opery troupe!”
 
“Yes,” replied Xenophon Curry with warm and lingering affection. “And I want to tell you, gentlemen, I’ve got some of the finest songbirds in captivity! Next time we play here I’ll send you down some passes.”
 
“Be sure they’re well toward the front,” stipulated the old man. The laugh was crowding in, but he just managed to add: “My eyes aren’t quite as good as they used to be!”
 
“I suppose,” observed Jerome respectfully, “you’ve been in the business all your life?”
 
“Almost as far back as I can remember,” the impresario assured him. “Lord, gentlemen, you couldn’t get me to give it up for a million dollars! It’s the glory of doing what you’re made to do! I was made for music as sure as God made little green apples! Music—” he poised it a moment, quite ecstatically, his eyes raised toward the ceiling, “—that’s what I’m made for!” But then he seemed to realize that emotion was rather carrying him away, and that, after all, here he was in a ship chandlery store, with a clerk and an old man blinking at him behind the counter; so he ended, very simply, and with another of his fine smiles: “I’m sorry to have bothered you about the supplies, but you see I never tried to run a schooner before. Gentlemen, I’ll wish you good day!”
 
He made them a gallant flourish and was about to take his departure, when Jerome suggested: “If you like sir, I could go through the Skipping Goone to see if there’s anything in our line you might need. There usually are a lot of odds and ends missing.”
 
Mr. Whitley showered looks of affection upon his clerk. Yes, he was really an ornament to the establishment. But Xenophon Curry looked positively radiant.
 
[26]
 
“That’s a fine idea, young man! Say, would you? I’ll show you through myself, from top to bottom, upstairs and down!”
 
Jerome came around the counter and accompanied the impresario to the door. In the street where trucks were thundering endlessly by along the cobblestones, afternoon was on the wane, foggy and black. On the threshold the man extended a hand.
 
“I’ll come down here in a cab and pick you up, and we’ll go to the wharf together. It’s ’way over somewhere,” he waved vaguely.
 
After they had shaken hands the amazing customer hurried off. His whole being seemed to exude a fierce yet always benevolent energy—the most amazing customer who had ever come into the store. “I’ll be able to tell Stella something’s happened at Oaks-Ferguson’s today!” he mused; and then he remembered that she’d no longer be interested to know whether things happened there or didn’t.
 
The look of animation faded wanly, and he felt very much alone. “Maybe I’ll go over anyway and see if she’s ready to make it up,” he thought, as he stood there in the doorway beside a swinging shiny oilskin coat and hat, gazing out into the murk of the dying winter day. But another voice within him followed close: “Maybe I won’t, too—anyway not yet awhile.” The first was the voice of the heart, hungry for the return of a girl’s affection; but the second was the voice of a still squirming masculine ego.
 
However, could he have known that at this very moment Stella was receiving from the postman an invitation, after all, to Elsa’s dance, and could he have beheld the look of rapture that came into her face as she realized the good fortune which had befallen her, Jerome would have experienced greater difficulty than ever persuading himself that she was going to be the heavier loser of the two.