There move the living; here the dead that move:
Within the book-world rests the noiseless lever
That moves the noisy, throngèd world forever.
Below the living move, the dead above.
“GOING, GOING, GONE.”
“Take it to Rumble. He will give you twice as much on it as any other pawnbroker.”
The speaker was a seedy actor, and the person he addressed was also a follower of the histrionic muses. The latter held before him an ulster which he surveyed with a rueful countenance.
It was not the thought of having to go to the pawnbroker’s that made him rueful, for he would have parted with a watch, if he had possessed one, with indifference; but the wind that whistled without and the snow that beat against the window-pane made him shiver at the thought of surrendering his ulster. However, he had to do it. Both he and his friend were without money, and it was New Year’s eve, which they did not mean to let pass without a little jollification. Therefore they had drawn lots to determine which should hypothecate his overcoat in order to raise funds. The victim was preparing to go to the sacrifice.
“Yes,” continued his friend, “take it to Rumble. He is the Prince of Pawnbrokers. Last week I took a set of gold shirt studs to him. He asked me at what I valued them. I named a slightly larger sum than I paid for them, and the old man gave me fully what they cost me.”
“Let us go at once to Rumble’s,” said the other, seizing his hat, and the two sallied forth into the night and the storm.
Down the street they went before the wind-driven snow. Fortunately they did not have far to go.
When they opened the door of Rumble’s shop, the old pawnbroker looked up in surprise. The tempest seemed to have blown his visitors in. The windows rattled; the lights flared; fantastic garments, made in the style of by-gone centuries, swayed to and fro where they hung, as though the shapes that might have worn them haunted the place; a set of armor, that stood in one corner, clanked as though the spirit of some dead paladin had entered it and was striving to stalk forth and do battle with the demons of the storm; while the gust that had occasioned all this commotion in the little shop went careering through the rooms at the rear, causing papers to fly, doors to slam, and a sweet voice to exclaim:
“Why, father, what is the matter?”
“Nothing, my dear, it is only the wind,” answered the old man, as he advanced to receive his visitors.
The one with whom he was acquainted nodded familiarly to the pawnbroker, while he of the rueful countenance pulled off his ulster and threw it on the counter, saying:
“How much will you give me on that?”
Rumble, who was a large man, rather fleshy and slow of movement, started toward the back of the shop with a lazy roll, like a ship under half sail. He made a tack around the end of the counter and hove to behind it, opposite the men who had just come in. He pulled his spectacles down from the top of his bald head, where they had been resting, drew the coat toward him, looked at it for an instant, then raised his eyes till they met those of his customer.
“How much do you think it is worth?” he said, uttering the words slowly and casting a commiserating glance at the thinly-clad form of the man before him.
“I paid twenty dollars for it,” said the young man. “It is worth ten dollars, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes!” returned the pawnbroker. “Shall I loan you ten dollars on it?”
“If you please,” answered his customer, whose face brightened when he heard the pawnbroker’s words. He had thought he might get five dollars on the ulster. The prospect of getting ten made him feel like a man of affluence.
The pawnbroker opened a book and began to fill the blanks in one of the many printed slips it contained. One of the blanks he filled with his customer’s name, James Teague. That was his real name, not the one by which he was known to the stage and to fame. That was far more aristocratical.
As Rumble handed Teague the ticket and the ten dollars, he took a stealthy survey of his slender and poorly-clad form, then glanced toward the window on which great flakes of snow were constantly beating, driven against it by the wind that howled fiendishly as it went through the street, playing havoc with shutters and making the swinging sign-boards creak uncannily.
“Mr. Dixon,” said the pawnbroker, turning to Teague’s companion, “will not you and your friend wait awhile until the storm slackens? It is pleasanter here by the fire than it is outside.”
His visitors agreed with him and accepted his invitation. They seated themselves beside the stove which stood in the center of the room, and from which, through little plates of isinglass, shone cheerful light from a bed of fiery coals. Both leaned back in their chairs; both turned the palms of their hands toward the stove, to receive the grateful heat; and when the old pawnbroker joined them, smiling genially as he sank into his great arm-chair, which seemed to have been made expressly for his capacious form, the same thought came to both of his guests. To this thought Dixon gave expression.
“Mr. Rumble,” he asked, “how happened it that you became a pawnbroker?”
“Well, I might say that it was by chance,” replied Rumble. “I was not bred to the business.”
“I thought not,” answered Dixon, as he and his friend exchanged knowing glances.
“I was a weaver by trade,” continued Rumble, “and until two years ago worked at that calling in England, where I was born. But I made little money at it, and when an aunt, at her death, left me five hundred pounds, I decided to come to this country and go into a new business.”
“But what put it into your head to choose that of a pawnbroker?” asked Dixon.
“Because everybody told me that larger profits were made in it than in any other. You see I am getting on in years, and I have a daughter for whom I must provide. When I die I want to leave her enough to make her comfortable.”
The street door was opened and for a moment the room was made decidedly uncomfortable by a cold blast accompanied by driving snow. Again the windows rattled, the armor clanked, and the hanging suits swung and shook their armless sleeves in the air.
A tall, slight young man, clad in well-worn black clothes, stood by the door. Although his beardless pale face was the face of youth, it was not free from the marks of care, and in his large lustrous dark eyes there was a yearning look that spoke, as plainly as words, of desires unfulfilled.
Dixon and Teague exchanged glances which as much as said, “here’s another customer for the pawnbroker.”
“Is Miss Rumble in?” said the newcomer in a hesitating manner, as he turned toward the old pawnbroker.
“You wouldn’t have her out on such a night, would you, Mr. Maxwell?” said Rumble, laughing. “She is in the sitting-room,” he added, pointing to the rear; “go right in.”
But Maxwell did not go right in. He knocked lightly at the door, which in a moment was opened by a young woman, whose girlish face and willowy figure presented a vision of loveliness to those in the outer room.
As Maxwell disappeared in the sitting-room, Dixon and his friend again exchanged glances which showed that they had changed their opinion in regard to the newcomer’s relations with the pawnbroker.
“Well,” asked Teague, “have the profits in this business met your expectations?”
“I have not been in it long enough to tell, for I have not had an auction,” replied Rumble. “In one respect, however, I have been disappointed. Very few articles on which I have loaned money have been redeemed. I don’t understand it.”
“Perhaps you are too liberal with your customers,” said Dixon.
“You would not have me be mean with them, would you?” answered Rumble.