Read Online The Man Game by Lee W. Henderson - Free Book Online Page B

Price a doing business, eh. Every bohunk’s got a story to tell and not one a them you can trust. You’re Rosy’s new employ.
    I am, said the clerk. Name’s Stan, his brother.
    Good to meet you, Rosy, said Daggett. Listen, what’s it worth you to tell me if you seen those handloggers Pisk and Litz pass through your doors?
    Rosy shrugged. Nothing. I seen nobody called that. Furry picked up the handle to a big iron roller. What’s this thing? he asked.
    That’s for your lawn.
    My lawn.
    You press your sod flat with it.
    You d
o
, huh? Well, that’s not what we’re here for.
    No, sir; I dare say I can tell you aren’t.
    Need to outfit thirty men, said Furry. Clothes all the way on up. The works, cookstove, camp cots, you name it. Dishes, matches. Everything you can think a, we need it.
    Okay, Rosy said and clapped his hands together. Still in that position of prayer, he turned to Molly for a moment and asked her if she needed anything or if he should go ahead and help these gentlemen. As she turned to face them, opening her mouth to answer, Furry and Daggett saw her face for the first time, and without warning both their bellies started to growl. And with their teeth showing, they tipped their hats to her. She agreed that the clerk should go ahead and help the men while she browsed. She was in no hurry, after all; it was such a fine day for an outing.
    Okay, all righty, said Rosy. Let’s look-see what we got.
    Rosy walked them through the store. There were cans of beans shelved all the way to the ceiling, iron shovels in all sizes hanging off coat racks, and bullets of all casings; they bought in bulk. They bought new hogskin gloves and denim trousers with copper riveting. Ten pounds of chewing tobacco. They bought fifty pounds of bacon in oilcloth sacks, another three sacks of flour waist-high, and cans of cream, syrup, and salt. Enough butter to last a season. Excited by the biggest sale since reopening after the Fire, Stan Rosy set out to prove his crockery was sturdy enough to be thrown on the floor and not break. Molly was in the midst of replacing a compass on its glass pedestal when the dish landed; she nevereven startled. They took Rosy’s advice when it came to jackscrews and ratchet screws, and he convinced them to buy an extra spool of iron chain. When he showed them the saws and axes, Daggett said to Rosy: You’re going to bust the bank.
    Oh, but look at these sweethearts. Rosy petted the sleek face of an axeblade. It gleamed with silver veins. It was easy to convince them to upgrade the whole kit. They debated different swamper’s axes and chose an eight-foot double-handed saw that looked like a killer whale’s jaw.
    Feel the heft, eh, said Rosy, giving them each a new pinewood long-handled axe to caress and admire. The perfect silken finish made the wood glow like skin. The handle curved like a slender body in repose. The blade was made of the strongest Gallic metal. At five feet long, only a man of Furry or Daggett’s height could wield such a blade. They bought two each and received free of charge the companion handaxes. Slip her right in your belt loop, Rosy said.
    They came again to the kitchen supplies and Molly tipped her head down demurely, eyes like candles burning below the shadow of her hatbrim as she flitted by.
    She’s a beauty, said Rosy, buffing the white enamel door of the Acorn cast-iron cookstove. Wood burning, he said.
    Yeah, said Daggett, giving the stove a once-over. He opened the enamelled door of the oven and waved his hand around inside. We’ll take a couple a these.
    Furry turned over a pair of thick leather logging boots and studied the frizz of spikes all over the sole.
    Those’re guaranteed, said Rosy.
    How much for all this? said Furry.
    Including the cost to ship the goods to your plot a land, Rosy said, your at a grand total a sixty and five.
    Sixty and five, Daggett said. No, no, sixty and five, Rosy,