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Toys of Peace-Part12_H.H.Munro(Saki)(1870-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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counter, and did not seem disposed to wait for any change that might

be forthcoming.



"The wine and figs were not paid for yesterday," he said; "keep what

is over of the money for our future purchases."



"A very strange-looking boy?" said Mrs. Greyes interrogatively to

the grocer as soon as his customer had left.



"A foreigner, I believe," said Mr. Scarrick, with a shortness that

was entirely out of keeping with his usually communicative manner.



"I wish for a pound and a half of the best coffee you have," said an

authoritative voice a moment or two later. The speaker was a tall,



authoritative-looking man of rather outlandish aspect, remarkable

among other things for a full black beard, worn in a style more in



vogue in early Assyria than in a London suburb of the present day.

"Has a dark-faced boy been here buying pomegranates?" he asked



suddenly, as the coffee was being weighed out to him.

The two ladies almost jumped on hearing the grocer reply with an



unblushing negative.

"We have a few pomegranates in stock," he continued, "but there has



been no demand for them."

"My servant will fetch the coffee as usual," said the purchaser,



producing a coin from a wonderful metal-work purse. As an apparent

afterthought he fired out the question: "Have you, perhaps, any



quail seed?"

"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.




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