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Ellis Parker Butler >> Being the Love Story of Eliph\' Hewlitt Book Agent
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Linda P Kemper-Holzman
jello@interconnect.net
KILO
Being the Love Story of Eliph' Hewlitt Book Agent
By Ellis Parker Butler
CONTENTS
I. Eliph' Hewlitt
II. Susan
III. "How to Win the Affections"
IV. Kilo
V. Sammy Mills
VI. The Castaway
VII. The Colonel
VIII. The Medium-sized Box
IX. The Witness
X. The Boss Grafter
XI. The False Gods of Doc Weaver
XII. Getting Acquainted
XIII. "Second: a Small Present
XIV. Something Turns Up
XV. Difficulties
XVI. Two Lovers, and a Third
XVII. According to Jarby's
XVIII. Another Trial
XIX. Pap Briggs' Hen Food
KILO
CHAPTER I
Eliph' Hewlitt
Eliph' Hewlitt, book agent, seated in his weather-beaten top buggy, drove his
horse, Irontail, carefully along the rough Iowa hill road that leads from
Jefferson to Clarence. The Horse, a rusty gray, tottered in a loose-jointed
manner from side to side of the road, half asleep in the sun, and was indolent
in every muscle of his body, except his tail, which thrashed violently at the
flies. Eliph' Hewlitt drove with his hands held high, almost on a level with his
sandy whiskers, for he was well acquainted with Irontail.
The road seemed to pass through a region of large farms, offering few
opportunities for selling books, the houses being so far apart, but Eliph' knew
the small settlement of Clarence was a few miles farther on, and he was carrying
enlightenment to the benighted. He glowed with missionary zeal. In his eagerness
he thoughtlessly slapped the reins on the back of Irontail.
Instantly the plump, gray tail of the horse flashed over the rein and clamped it
fast. Eliph' Hewlitt leaned over the dashboard of his buggy and grasped the hair
of the tail firmly. He pulled it upward with all his strength, but the tail did
not yield. Instead, Irontail kicked vigorously. Eliph' Hewlitt, knowing his
horse as well as he knew human nature, climbed out of the buggy, and taking the
rein close by the bit led Irontail to the side of the road. Then he took from
beneath the buggy seat a bulky, oil-cloth-wrapped parcel and seated himself near
the horse's head. There was no safety for a timid driver when Irontail had thus
assumed command of the rein. There was no way to get a rein from beneath that
tail but to ignore it. In an hour or so Irontail would grow forgetful,
carelessly begin flapping flies, and release the rein himself.
Eliph' Hewlitt unwrapped the oilcloth from the object in enfolded. It was a
book. It was Jarby's 'Encyclopedia of Knowledge and Compendium of Literature,
Science, Art, Comprising Useful Information on One Thousand and One Subjects,
Including A History of the World, the Lives of all Famous Men, Quotations From
the World's Great Authors, One Thousand and One Recipes, Et Cetera'. One Volume,
five dollars bound in cloth; seven fifty in morocco. Eliph' Hewlitt passed his
hand affectionately over the gilt-stamped cover, and then opened it at random
and read.
For years he had been reading Jarby's Encyclopedia, and among its ten thousand
and one subjects he always found something new. It opened now at "Courtship-How
to Make Love--How to Win the Affections--How to Hold Them When Won," and
although he had read the pages often before, he found in all parts of the book,
whenever he read it, a new meaning. It occurred to him that even a book agent
might have reason to use the helpful words set for in clear type in the chapter
on "Courtship--How to Make Love," and he realized that sometime he must reach
the age when he would need a home of his own. For years he had thought of woman
only as a possible customer for Jarby's Encyclopedia. Every woman, not already
married, he now saw, might be a possible Mrs. Eliph' Hewlitt.
Suddenly he raised his head. On the breeze there was borne to him the sound of
voices--many voices. He closed the book with a bang. His small body became
tense; his eyes glittered. He scented prey. He wrapped the book in its oilcloth,
laid it upon the buggy seat, and taking Irontail by the bridle, started in the
direction of the voices.
Half a mile down the road he came upon a scene of merriment. In a cleared grove
men, women and children were gathered; it was a church picnic. Eliph' Hewlitt
took his hitching strap from beneath the buggy seat and secured Irontail to a
tree.
"Church picnic," he said to himself; "one, two, sixteen, twenty-four, AND the
minister. Good for twelve copies of Jarby's Encyclopedia or I'm no good myself.
I love church picnics. What so lovely as to see the pastor and his flock
gathered together in a bunch, as I may say, like ten-pins, ready to be scooped
in, all at one shot?"
He walked up to the rail fence and leaned against it so that he might be seen
and invited in. It was better policy than pushing himself forward, and it gave
him time to study the faces. He did not find them hopeful subjects. They were
not the faces of readers. They were not even the faces of buyers. Even in their
holiday finery, the women were shabby and the men were careworn. The minister
himself, white-bearded and gray-haired, showed more signs of spiritual grace
than intellectual strength.
One woman, fresh and bright as a butterfly, appeared among them, and Eliph'
Hewlitt knew her at once as a city dweller, who had somehow got into this dull
and hard-working community. Almost at the same moment she noticed him, and
approached him. She smiled kindly and extended her hand.
"Won't you come in?" she asked. "I don't seem to remember your face, but we
would be glad to have you join us."
Eliph' Hewlitt shook his head.
"No'm," he said sadly. "I'd better not come in. Not that I don't want to, but I
wouldn't be welcome. There ain't anything I like so much as church picnics, and
when I was a boy I used to cry for them, but I wouldn't dare join you. I'm a"--
he looked around cautiously, and said in a whisper--"I'm a book agent."
The lady laughed.
"Of course," she said, "that DOES make a difference; but you needn't be a book
agent to-day. You can forget it for a while and join us."
Eliph' Hewlitt shook his head again.
"That's it," he said. "That's just the reason. I CAN'T forget it. I try to, but
I can't. Just when I don't want to, I break out, and before I know it I've sold
everybody a book, and then I feel like I'd imposed on good nature. They take me
in as a friend and then I sell 'em a copy of Jarby's 'Encyclopedia of Knowledge
and Compendium of Literature, Science and Art,' ten thousand and one subjects,
from A to Z, including recipes for every known use, quotations from famous
authors, lives of famous men, and, in one word, all the world's wisdom condensed
into one volume, five dollars, neatly bound in cloth, one dollar down and one
dollar a month until paid."
He paused, and the lady looked at him with an amused smile.
"Of seven fifty, handsomely bound in morocco," he added. "So you see I don't
feel like I ought to impose. I know how I am. You take my mother now. She hadn't
seen me for eight years. I'd been traveling all over these United States,
carrying knowledge and culture into the homes of the people at five dollars,
easy payments, per home, and I got a telegram saying, 'Come home. Mother very
ill.'" He nodded his head slowly. "Wonderful invention, the telegraph," he said.
"It tells all about it on page 562 of Jarby's 'Encyclopedia of Knowledge and
Compendium of Literature, Science and Art,'--who invented; when first used; name
of every city, town, village and station in the U.S. that has a telegraph
office; complete explanation of the telegraph system, telling how words are
carried over a slender wire, et cetery, et cetery. This and ten thousand other
useful facts in one volume, only five dollars, bound in cloth. So when I got
that telegram I took the train for home. Look in the index under T. 'Train,
Railway--see Railway.' 'Railway; when first operated; inventor of the locomotive
engine; railway accidents from 1892 to 1904, giving number of fatal accidents
per year, per month, per week, per day, and per miles; et cetery, et cetery.
Every subject known to man fully and interestingly treated, WITH illustrations."
"I don't believe I care for a copy to-day," said the lady.
"No," said Eliph' Hewlitt, meekly. "I know it. Nor I don't want to sell you one.
I just mentioned it to show you that when you have a copy of Jarby's
Encyclopedia of Knowledge you have an entire library in one book, arranged and
indexed by the greatest minds of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. One
dollar down and one dollar a month until paid. But--when I got home I found
mother low--very low. When I went in she was just able to look up and whisper,
'Eliph'?' 'Yes, mother,' I says. 'Is it really you at last?' she says. 'Yes,
mother,' I says, 'it's me at last, mother, and I couldn't get here sooner. I was
out in Ohio, carrying joy to countless homes and introducing to them Jarby's
Encyclopedia of Knowledge and Compendium of Literature, Science and Art. It is a
book, mother,' I says, 'suited for rich or poor, young or old. No family is
complete without it. Ten thousand and one subjects, all indexed from A to Z,
including an appendix of the Spanish War brought down to the last moment, and
maps of Europe, Asia, Africa, North and South America and Australia. This book,
mother,' I says, 'is a gold mine of information for the young, and a solace for
the old. Pages 201 to 263 filled with quotations from the world's great poets,
making select and helpful reading for the fireside lamp. Pages 463 to 468, dying
sayings of famous men and women. A book,' I says, 'that teaches us how to live
and how to die. All the wisdom of the world in one volume, five dollars, neatly
bound in cloth, one dollar down and one dollar a month until paid.' Mother
looked up at me and says, 'Eliph', put me down for one copy.' So I did. I hope I
may do the same for you."
The lady was about to speak, but Eliph' Hewlitt held up his hand warningly.
"No," he said. "I beg your pardon. I didn't MEAN to say that. I couldn't think
of taking your order. I didn't mean to ask it any more than I meant to ask
mother. It's habit, and that's what I'm afraid of. I'd better not intrude."
The lady evidently did not agree with him. He amused her because he was what she
called a "type," and she was always on the lookout for "types." She urged him to
join the picnic, and said he could try not to talk books, and reminded him that
no one could do more than try. He climbed the fence with a reluctance that was
the more noticeable because his climbing was retarded by the oilcloth-covered
parcel he held beneath his arm. The lady smiled as she noticed that he had not
feared his soliciting habits sufficiently to leave the book in the buggy, and
she made a mental note of this to be used in the story she meant to write about
this book-agent type.
"My name is Smith," she told him, as she tripped lightly toward the group about
the lunch baskets.
Eliph' Hewlitt was a small man and his movements were short and jerky. He drew
his hand over his red whiskers and coughed gently when she mentioned her name,
and as she hurried on before him he looked at her tall, straight figure; noticed
the stylish mode of her simple summer gown, and caught a glimpse of low, white
shoes and neat ankles covered by delicately woven silk.
"Courtship--How to Make Love--How to Win the Affections--How to Hold Them When
Won," he meditated. "Lovely, but she will not suit. She is an encyclopedia of
knowledge and compendium of literature, science and art, but she is not the
edition I can afford. She is gilt-edged and morocco bound, and an ornament to
any parlor, but I can't afford her. My style is cloth, good substantial cloth,
one dollar down and one dollar a month until paid. As I might say."
CHAPTER II
Susan
Mrs. Tarbro-Smith had arranged the picnic herself, hoping to bring a little
pleasure into the dullness of the summer, enliven the interest in the little
church, and make a pleasant day for the people of Clarence, and she had
succeeded in this as in everything she had undertaken during her summer in Iowa.
As the leader of her own little circle of bright people in New York, she was
accustomed to doing things successfully, and perhaps she was too sure of always
having things her own way. As sister of the world-famous author, Marriott Nolan
Tarbro, she was always received with consideration in New York, even by editors,
but in seeking out a dead eddy in middle Iowa she had been in search of the two
things that the woman author most desires, and best handles: local color and
types. The editor of MURRAY'S MAGAZINE had told her that his native ground--
middle Iowa--offered fresh material for her pen, and, intent on opening this new
mine of local color, she had stolen away without letting even her most intimate
friends know where she was going. To have her coming heralded would have put her
"types" on their guard, and for that reason she had assumed as an impenetrable
incognito one-half her name. No rays of reflected fame glittered on plain Mrs.
Smith.
While her literary side had found some pleasure in studying the people she had
fallen among, she was not able to recognize the distinctness of type in them
that the editor of MURRAY'S had led her to believe she should find. She had
hoped to discover in Clarence a type as sharply defined as the New England
Yankee or the York County Dutch of Pennsylvania, but she could not see that the
middle Iowan was anything but the average country person such as is found
anywhere in Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio, a type that is hard to portray with
fidelity, except with rather more skill than she felt she had, since it is
composed of innumerable ingredients drawn not only from New England, but from
nearly every State, and from all the nations of Europe. However, her kindness of
heart had been able to exert itself bountifully, and she had had enough
experience in her sundry searches for local color to know that a lapse of time
and of distance would emphasize the types she was now seeing, and that by the
middle of the winter, when once more in her New York apartment, her present
experiences and observations would have the right perspective, and their salient
features would stand out more plainly. So she won the hearts of her hostess, and
of the dozen or more children of the house, with small gifts, and overjoyed with
this she set about making the whole community happier. Little presents, smiles,
and kind words meant so much to the overworked, hopeless women, and her cheery
manner was so pleasant to men and children, that all worshipped her--clumsily
and mutely, but whole-heartedly. She was a fairy lady to them.
The truth was that, in her eagerness to secure the most vivid kind of local
color, she had gone a step too far. Clarence, with its decayed sidewalks and
rotting buildings, was not typical of middle Iowa any more than a stagnant pool
lift by a receded river after a flood is typical of the river itself. Before the
days of railroads Clarence had been a lively little town, but it was on the top
of a hill, and, when the engineer of the Jefferson Western Railroad had laid his
ruler on the map and had drawn a straight line across Iowa to represent the
course of the road, Clarence had been left ten or twelve miles to one side, and,
as the town was not important enough to justify spoiling the beauty of the
straight line by putting a curve in it, a station was marked on the road at the
point nearest Clarence, and called Kilo. For a while the new station was merely
a sidetrack on the level prairie, a convenience for the men of Clarence, but
before Clarence knew how it had happened Kilo was a flourishing town, and the
older town on the hill had begun to decay. Even while Clarence was still
sneering at Kilo as a sidetrack village, Kilo had begun to sneer at Clarence as
a played-out crossroads settlement. Clarence, when Mrs. Tarbro-Smith visited
it, was no more typical of middle Iowa than a sunfish really resembles the sun.
In Clarence Mrs. Smith's best loved and best loving admirer was Susan, daughter
of her hostess, and, to Mrs. Smith, Susan was the long sought and impossible--a
good maid. From the first Susan had attached herself to Mrs. Smith, and, for
love and two dollars a week, she learned all that a lady's maid should know.
When Mrs. Smith asked her if she would like to go to New York, Susan jumped up
and down and clapped her hands. Susan was as sweet and lovable as she was
useful, and under Mrs. Smith's care she had been transformed into such a thing
of beauty that Clarence could hardly recognize her. Instead of tow-colored hair,
crowded back by means of a black rubber comb, Susan had been taught a neat
arrangement of her blonde locks--so great is the magic of a few deft touches.
Instead of being a gawky girl of seventeen, in a faded blue calico wrapper,
Susan, as transformed by one of Mrs. Smith's simple white gowns, was a young
lady. She so worshipped Mrs. Smith that she imitated her in everything, even to
the lesser things, like motions of the hand, and tossings of the head.
When Mrs. Smith broached the matter of taking Susan to New York, she received a
shock from Mr. and Mrs. Bell. She had not for one moment doubted that they
would be delighted to find that Susan could have a good home, good wages, and a
city life, instead of the existence in such a town as Clarence.
"Well, now," Mr. Bell said, "we gotter sort o' talk it over, me an' ma, 'fore we
decide that. Susan's a'most our baby, she is. T'hain't but four of 'em younger
than what she is in our fambly. We'll let you know, hey?"
Ma and Pa Bell talked it over carefully and came to a decision. The decision was
that they had better talk it over with some of the neighbors. The neighbors met
at Bell's and talked it over openly in the presence of Mrs. Smith.
They agreed that it would be a great chance for Susan, and they said that no one
could want a nicer, kinder lady for boss than what Mrs. Smith was--"but 'tain't
noways right to take no risks."
"You see, ma'am," said Ma Bell, "WE don't know who you are no more than nothin',
do we? And we do know how as them big towns is ungodly to beat the band, don't
we? I remember my grandma tellin' me when I was a little girl about the awful
goin's on she heard tell of one time when she was down to Pittsburg, and I
reckon New York must be twice the size of Pittsburg was them days, so it must be
twice as wicked. So we tell you plain, without meanin' no harm, that WE don't
know who you are, nor what you'd do with Susan, once you got her to New York."
"Oh, I now what you want," said Mrs. Smith; "you want references."
"Them's it," said Mrs. Bell, with great relief.
"Well," said Mrs. Smith, "that is easy. I know EVERYBODY in New York."
She thought a moment.
"There's Mr. Murray, of MURRAY'S MAGAZINE," she suggested, mentioning her friend
of the great monthly magazine.
"Guess we never heard of that," said Mrs. Bell doubtfully.
"Then do you know the AEON MAGAZINE? I know the editor of AEON."
The neighbors and Mrs. Bell looked at each other blankly, and shook their heads.
Mrs. Smith named ALL the magazines. She had contributed stories to most of
them, but not one was known, even by name, to her inquisitors. One shy old lady
asked faintly if she had ever heard of Mr. Tweed. She thought she had heard of a
Mister Tweed of New York, once.
Then, quite suddenly, Mrs. Smith remembered her own brother, the great Marriott
Nolan Tarbro, whose romances sold in editions of hundreds of thousands, and who
was, beyond all doubt, the greatest living novelist. Kings had been glad to meet
him, and newsboys and gamins ran shouting at his heels when he walked the
streets.
"How silly of me," she said. "You must have heard of my brother, Marriott Nolan
Tarbro, you know, who wrote 'The Marquis of Glenmore' and 'The Train Wreckers'?"
Mrs. Bell coughed apologetically behind her hand.
"I'm not very littery, Mrs. Smith," she said kindly, "but mebby Mrs. Stein knows
of him. Mrs. Stein reads a lot."
Mrs. Stein, whose sole reading was the Bible and such advertising booklets as
came by mail, or as she could pick up on the counter of the drugstore, when she
went to Kilo, moved uneasily. For years she had had the reputation of being a
great reader, and brought face to face with the sister of an author she feared
her reputation was about to fall.
"What say his name was?" she asked.
"Tarbro," said Mrs. Smith, as one would mention Shakespeare or Napoleon.
"Tarbro. Marriott Nolan Tarbro."
"Well," said Mrs. Stein slowly, turning her head on one side and looking at the
spot on the ceiling from which the plaster had fallen, "I won't say I haven't.
And I won't say I have. When a person reads as much as what I do, she reads so
many names they slip out of memory. Just this minute I don't quite call him to
mind. Mighty near, though; I mind a feller once that peddled notions through
here name of Tarbox. Might you know him?"
"No," said Mrs. Smith, "I haven't the honor."
"I thought mebby you might know him," said Mrs. Stein. "His business took him
'round considerable, and I thought mebby it might have took him to New York, and
that mebby you might have met him."
Mrs. Bell sighed audibly.
"It's goin' to be an awful trial to Susan if she can't go," she said; "but I
dunno WHAT to say. Seems like I oughtn't to say 'go,' an' yet I can't abear to
say 'stay.'"
"I MUST have Susan," said Mrs. Smith, putting her arm about the girl. "I know
you can trust her with me."
"Clementina," said Mr. Bell suddenly, "why don't you leave it to the minister?
He'd settle it for the best. Why don't you leave it to him? Hey?"
"Well, bless my stars," said Mrs. Bell, brightening with relief, "I'd ought to
have thought of that long ago. He WOULD know what was for the best. I'll ask him
to-morrow."
To-morrow was the picnic day.
As Mrs. Smith led the way for Eliph' Hewlitt, the minister left the group of
women who had clustered about him, and walked toward her.
"Sister Smith," he said, in his grave, kind way, "Sister Bell tells me you want
to carry off our little Susan. You know we must be wise as serpents and gentle
as doves I deciding, and"--he laid his hand on her arm--"though I doubt not all
will be well, I must think over the matter a while. Welcome, brother," he added,
offering his hand to Eliph' Hewlitt.
The little book agent shook it warmly.
"'I was a stranger and ye took me in,'" he said glibly. "Fine weather for a
picnic."
His eyes glowed. To meet the minister first of all! This was good, indeed. Years
of experience had taught him to seek the minister first. To start the round of a
small community with the prestige of having sold the minister himself a copy of
Jarby's Encyclopedia made success a certainty.
He took the oilcloth-covered parcel from beneath his arm, and handed it to the
minister gently, lovingly.
"Keep it until the picnic is over," he said. "I'm a book agent. I sell books.
THIS is the book I sell. Take it away and hide it, so I can forget it and be
happy. Don't let me have it until the picnic is over. PLEASE don't!"
He stretched out his arms in freedom, and the minister smiled and led the way
toward the place where a buggy cushion had been laid on the grass as his seat of
honor.
"I will retain the book," said the minister, with a smile, "although I don't
think you can sell the book here. My brethren in Clarence are not readers. I
read little myself. We are poor; we have no time to read. Except the Bible, I
know of but one book in this entire community. Sister Dawson has a copy of
Bunyan's sublime work, 'Pilgrim's Progress.' It was an heirloom. Be seated," he
said, and Eliph' Hewlitt seated himself Turk-fashion, on the sod.
The minister took the book carefully on his knees. Even to feel a new book was a
pleasure he did not often have, and his fingers itched upon it.
In three minutes Eliph' Hewlitt knew the entire story of Mrs. Smith and Susan,
so far as it was known to the minister, and he leaned over and tapped with his
forefinger the book on the minister's knee.
"Open it," he said.
The minister removed the wrapper.
"Page 6, Index," said Eliph' Hewlitt, turning the pages. He ran his finger down
the page, and up and down page 7, stopped at a line on page 8, and hastily
turned over the pages of the book. At page 974 he laid the book open, and the
minister adjusted his spectacles and read where the book agent pointed. Then he
pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and looked carefully at the picnickers.
He singled out Mrs. Tarbro-Smith, and waved her toward him with his hand. She
came and stood before him.
The minister wiped his spectacles on his handkerchief, readjusted them on his
nose, and bent over the book.
"What is your brother's name?" he asked kindly, but with solemnity.
"Marriott Nolan Tarbro," she answered.
He traced the lines carefully with his finger.
"Born?" he asked.
"June 4, 1864, at Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson."
"And he is married?"
"Married Amanda Rogers Long, at Newport, Rhode Island, June 14, 1895."
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