The Harvester (Romance Classic). Stratton-Porter Gene
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of the house he just had left opened and the girl ran after him. “If you have more, we will take them,” she called.
The Harvester gasped for breath.
“They have to be used at once,” he suggested.
“She knows that. She wants to treat her friends.”
“Well she has got enough for a banquet,” he said. “I—I don't usually sell more than a dozen or two in one place.”
“I don't see why you can't let her have them if you have more.”
“Perhaps I have orders to fill for regular customers,” suggested the Harvester.
“And perhaps you haven't,” said the maid. “You ought to be ashamed not to let people who are willing to pay your outrageous prices have them. It's regular highway robbery.”
“Possibly that's the reason I decline to hold up one party twice,” said the Harvester as he entered the gate and went up the walk to the front door.
“You should be taught your place,” called the maid after him.
The Harvester again rang the bell. Another maid opened the door, and once more he asked to speak with the lady of the house. As the girl turned, a handsome old woman in cap and morning gown came down the stairs.
“What have you there?” she asked.
The Harvester lifted the leaves and exposed the musky, crimpled, big mushrooms.
“Oh!” she cried in delight. “Indeed, yes! We are very fond of them. I will take the basket, and divide with my sons. You are sure you have no poisonous ones among them?”
“Quite sure,” said the Harvester faintly.
“How much do you want for the basket?”
“They are a dollar a dozen; I haven't counted them.”
“Dear me! Isn't that rather expensive?”
“It is. Very!” said the Harvester. “So expensive that most people don't think of taking over a dozen. They are large and very rich, so they go a long way.”
“I suppose you have to spend a great deal of time hunting them? It does seem expensive, but they are fresh, and the boys are so fond of them. I'm not often extravagant, I'll just take the lot. Sarah, bring a pan.”
Again the Harvester stood and watched an entire basket counted over and carried away, and he felt the robber he had been called as he took the money.
At the next house he had learned a lesson. He carpeted a basket with leaves and counted out a dozen and a half into it, leaving the remainder in the wagon. Three blocks on one side of the street exhausted his store and he was showered with orders. He had not seen any one that even resembled a dark-eyed girl. As he came from the last house a big, red motor shot past and then suddenly slowed and backed beside his wagon.
“What in the name of sense are you doing?” demanded Doctor Carey.
“Invading the residence district of Onabasha,” said the Harvester. “Madam, would you like some nice, fresh, country mushrooms? I guarantee that there are no poisonous ones among them, and they were gathered this morning. Considering their rarity and the difficult work of collecting, they are exceedingly low at my price. I am offering these for five dollars a dozen, madam, and for mercy sake don't take them or I'll have no excuse to go to the next house.”
The doctor stared, then understood, and began to laugh. When at last he could speak he said, “David, I'll bet you started with three bushels and began at the head of this street, and they are all gone.”
“Put up a good one!” said the Harvester. “You win. The first house I tried they ordered me to the back door, took a market basket full away from me by force, tried to buy the load, and I didn't see any one save a maid.”
The doctor lay on the steering gear and faintly groaned.
The Harvester regarded him sympathetically. “Isn't it a crime?” he questioned. “Mushrooms are no go. I can see that!——or rather they are entirely too much of a go. I never saw anything in such demand. I must seek a less popular article for my purpose. To-morrow look out for me. I shall begin where I left off to-day, but I will have changed my product.”
“David, for pity sake,” peeped the doctor.
“What do I care how I do it, so I locate her?” superbly inquired the Harvester.
“But you won't find her!” gasped the doctor.
“I've come as close it as you so far, anyway,” said the Harvester. “Your mushrooms are on the desk in your office.”
He drove slowly up and down the streets until Betsy wabbled on her legs. Then he left her to rest and walked until he wabbled; and by that time it was dark, so he went home.
At the first hint of dawn he was at work the following morning. With loaded baskets closely covered, he started to Onabasha, and began where he had quit the day before. This time he carried a small, crudely fashioned bark basket, leaf-covered, and he rang at the front door with confidence.
Every one seemed to have a maid in that part of the city, for a freshly capped and aproned girl opened the door.
“Are there any young women living here?” blandly inquired the Harvester.
“What's that of your business?” demanded the maid.
The Harvester flushed, but continued, “I am offering something especially intended for young women. If there are none, I will not trouble you.”
“There are several.”
“Will you please ask them if they would care for bouquets of violets, fresh from the woods?”
“How much are they, and how large are the bunches?”
“Prices differ, and they are the right size to appear well. They had better see for themselves.”
The maid reached for the basket, but the Harvester drew back.
“I keep them in my possession,” he said. “You may take a sample.”
He lifted the leaves and drew forth a medium-sized bunch of long-stemmed blue violets with their leaves. The flowers were fresh, crisp, and strong odours of the woods arose from them.
“Oh!” cried the maid. “Oh, how lovely!”
She hurried away with them and returned carrying a purse.
“I want two more bunches,” she said. “How much are they?”
“Are the girls who want them dark or fair?”
“What difference does that make?”
“I have blue violets for blondes, yellow for brunettes, and white for the others.”
“Well I never! One is fair, and two have brown hair and blue eyes.”
“One blue and two whites,” said the Harvester calmly, as if matching women's hair and eyes with flowers were an inherited vocation. “They are twenty cents a bunch.”
“Aha!” he chortled to himself as he whistled to Betsy. “At last we have it. There are no dark-eyed girls here. Now we are making headway.”
Down the street he went, with varying fortune, but with patience and persistence at every house he at last managed to learn whether there was a dark-eyed girl. There did not seem to be many. Long before his store of yellow violets was gone the last blue and white had disappeared. But he calmly went on asking for dark-eyed girls, and explaining that all the blue and white were taken, because fair women were most numerous.
At one house the owner, who reminded the Harvester of his mother, came to the door. He uncovered and in his suavest tones inquired if a brunette young woman lived there and if she would like a nosegay of yellow violets.
“Well bless