CHAPTER VII THE MARBLE FALCON

The auctioneer, a large, bald man with a warming smile, climbed to the platform and announced the terms of the sale. “Goods,” he explained, “are sold as is. No complaints will be listened to. A deposit will be required with each purchase.”

“Ja! We know,” jeered one future purchaser. “If ve get hooked ve don’t kick. You get our money. It iss good money. So you don’t kick. All iss sveet and lovely. Ja!”

The crowd laughed. The auctioneer laughed with them. And well he could afford to, for it was he who always had the last laugh.

“Remember,” Weston, the ruddy-cheeked German, whispered in Merry’s ear, “seventy-five is union price.”
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“I remember.” Merry turned her smiling eyes upon his. Those eyes had done much for her in the past. If she particularly wished a package, these, her friends of the “union,” refused to bid, and she bought it at her own price. The “union” was a union only in name. It was composed of a group of regular buyers who, meeting here and elsewhere, had themselves united in a bond of friendship.

This day, however, the union found itself greatly outnumbered by casual customers who on occasion bid high, and returned home later to curse the spirit of chance that for the moment had held them under its spell.

“Three packages!” shouted the auctioneer. “Three! How much apiece? How much for each one?”

“Quarter.”

“Half dollar.”

“Who goes seventy-five?”

“Seventy-five.”

“Dollar.”

“And a quarter.”

“Whew!” exclaimed Merry. “Watch them climb! Seventy-five is union price. How can we buy to-day?”
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“Oh, but I still have money,” insisted Jeanne. “We must buy. I will pay. This is my luckee day.”

“There’s no luck if you break union rules. Wait.”

They did wait. Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half the sale went on. Merry bought two damaged lamps and a broken chair. These went for a song. But packages! How they soared!

Merry took to bidding union price at the very start. “Seventy-five!” she shouted again and again, but each time the throng behind went far above her.

“Pipe down!” Weston shouted back at them. “Give the little girl a chance!”

Not a chance did they give her.

So the day wore on. The pile behind the counter had dwindled very low when two modest sized packages, one with a foreign label on it, were put up.

“See!” hissed Jeanne in sudden excitement. “That one came from France. There are French words on the label. We must have it!”
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“Sh! Be still!” Merry squeezed her hand.

Weston bid a quarter. Fisheim, a second member of the union, went to half a dollar.

“Seventy-five!” screamed Merry.

“Seventy-five, and sold!” shouted the auctioneer.

Merry thanked him with her laughing Irish eyes. She understood it all. She had been saving him breath by bidding high at the start. Now she was repaid.

“Di—did we get them?” the little French girl demanded breathlessly.

“We did. And now we go to the window. We must pay there. The sale will be over in ten minutes. Ten more, and we’ll march away with our precious parcels from the big grab-bag. Tad will come for the lamps and the chair to-morrow.”

“Mine’s heavy.” Jeanne gave a little skip of joy as they entered the elevator twenty minutes later.
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“So’s mine.” Merry’s tone did not echo her companion’s enthusiasm. “Don’t expect too much, you know. Blessed is he who expecteth nothing, for he shall not be disappointed! That’s not in the Bible, but it should have been.

“Your package may be full of old books and mine loaded with bricks. Old books come often enough, and I’ve seen broken bricks in a package, too.”

“Bricks!” Jeanne voiced her amazement. “Why would anyone send broken bricks by express?”

“They wouldn’t. But, you see, these packages are sent in from express offices everywhere. Not all of the agents are honest. If an agent is about to send in a nice mantel clock, slightly damaged, what’s to hinder his taking it out and replacing it with broken bricks? No one will be the wiser. If you or I buy the package, we get hooked, that’s all.”

“Bricks!” Jeanne said in disgust. “But then, mine is not full of bricks. This is my luckee day!”

“Here!” Merry pulled her into the shadow of a stairway. “We’ll unwrap them here. No one will see us.”
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If Petite Jeanne’s hands trembled as she tore away the paper wrappings with the strange foreign labels, her whole body trembled and she appeared about to sink to the ground as she took one look at that which was within.

She lifted the object half way out of its box, stared at it with bulging eyes as she murmured something like “Fire God.” Then, crowding the thing back as if it were alive and about to jump at her, she crammed paper down upon it and hastily glanced about her to see if any stranger might have observed her action. Seeing no one, she heaved a sigh of relief.

“Look!” Merry’s tone was joyous. “A bird! A bird carved from marble!”

“It’s a falcon.” Jeanne studied it critically. “A marble falcon. And how well it is done! You know falcons are like eagles and hawks, only they may be tamed and taught to hunt for you. There are many of them in Europe and England. The gypsies are very fond of them. Gypsies are not allowed to hunt in the forest preserves. But their birds. Oh, la, la! That is another matter.
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“But what a pity!” she exclaimed. “His beak is broken!”

“Sure!” laughed Merry. “What do you expect for three greasy quarters? If he were whole, he’d be worth a whole double golden eagle.

“Perhaps the beak is here.” She began feeling about in the excelsior wrappings. “Yes, yes, here it is! How very fortunate! Now we shall see him all together again. Tad will fix that.

“We will not sell him, for all that,” she continued solemnly. “He shall be my very own. See! He is looking toward the clouds. He has a broken beak, yet he can look skyward. He shall be my inspiration. When all seems dark; when our money is spent and no one comes to our poor little shop to buy, then I shall look at my marble falcon and say:

“‘You are brave. Your beak is broken; yet you look toward the clouds.’”

“How wonderful!” Jeanne murmured. “Would that I, too, possessed a marble falcon with a broken beak.”
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“But what did you find?” Merry put out a hand for Jeanne’s package.

“No, no!” The little French girl’s cheeks paled as she drew back! “Not here! I will show you. But please, not here.”

Petite Jeanne was strangely silent as they rattled homeward on an elevated train. Her actions, too, were strange. The mysterious package with its question-provoking foreign labels lay beside her on the seat. Once, as she appeared to waken from a trance-like state, she put out a hand to push the package far from her.

“As if it contained some hidden peril,” Merry told herself.

The next moment, as if afraid some one would take it from her, the little French girl was holding the package close to her side.
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When they had gained the seclusion of her own small room, all was changed. She became vastly excited. Throwing off her wraps, she pulled down the shades, threw on a table lamp that gave forth a curious red glow; then, tearing the package open, she drew forth a curious figure done in some metal that resembled bronze. A bust it was, the head and shoulders of a man. And such a man! Such a long, twisted nose! Such protruding eyes! Such a leer as overspread his features!

“Oh!” exclaimed Merry. “How terrible!”

“Do you think so?” Petite Jeanne spoke as one in a trance.

She set the bronze figure in the light of the red lamp. There it appeared to take on the glow of fire, the popping eyes gleaming wickedly.

Petite Jeanne did not seem to mind this. She stood and stared at the thing until a look of dreamy rapture overspread her face. Then she spoke:

“This is the gypsy God of Fire. How often in hidden places, beside hedges and in the heart of dark forests I have danced before him the gypsy fire dance, the dance that brings health and happiness! How often I have longed to possess him! And now he is mine! Mine, for I have bought him. Bought him for three tiny quarters.
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“Oh, my friend!” She threw her arms about the astonished Merry. “Truly you are my friend. See! See what you have brought me. The gypsy God of Fire.”

“But I don’t understand,” said Merry.

“No. And perhaps you never will,” the little French girl whispered. “It is a very deep enchantment.”

At that she led her friend on tiptoe to the door and kissed her good-bye.

“What a very strange girl!” Merry murmured as she made her way down the stairs. “And yet I like her. I—I love her. I truly do.”