At the tables the conversation was friendly but brief, geared to fit between bites of food before the presiding officer banged the gavel.
Susan Exbridge, the antiques dealer, sat next to Qwilleran and said, “Darling! It’s been so long!” Since joining the theatre club she had become dramatic in speech and gesture.
“I’ve been in Mooseville,” he said.
“How’s Polly?”
“She’s fine. What’s new in antiques?”
“I’m liquidating a collection of mechanical banks.”
“What are they?”
“Small cast-iron banks for saving coins.”
“Expensive?”
“One is valued at fifty thousand.”
He took a swallow or two before asking. “What do they look like?”
“Some are cute. Some are ugly. Come and see them at my shop.”
BANG! BANG! BANG! The meeting was called to order. The Boosters Club had accepted the responsibility of the Mark Twain Festival, and the various committees were reporting on progress:
About the parade; “The idea is to have characters from Mark Twain stories marching in costume. So far we’ve signed up Soldier Boy, the horse; Aileen, the dog; Tom Quartz, the cat (to be drawn in a wagon); and more than fifty Tom Sawyers. The question arises; How many clones do we want?”
About the lecture series; “We invited a well-known Mark Twain expert in California, but he’s lukewarm. He says he never heard of Pickax and can’t find it on the map. Also, his fee is quite high. Question; Should we reconsider? Someone like Jim Qwilleran could probably give the lectures, if he did a little research.”
Shouts of “Hear! Hear!”
About the dedication of Mark Twain Boulevard; “We thought to honor the author by naming a historically important, architecturally attractive street after him, but the forty-seven property owners on Pleasant Street are protesting violently to any name change. There was a near-riot at city council meeting last week. We can’t name some grubby little backstreet after him, can we? The committee would welcome input.”
About the proposed Mark Twain Suite at the Mackintosh Inn; “Well, you all know what happened in the suite a few days ago, virtually under the portrait of the Great Man. The management of the inn deems it inappropriate to draw attention to the presidential suite at this time – probably next year.”
About lapel buttons to be sold at the festival; “Unfortunately our fifteen thousand polar bear lapel buttons couldn’t be used when the ice festival melted down. We proposed having them reworked with Mark Twain’s portrait, but the cost of reworking would be higher than starting from scratch. The committee would welcome ideas for using the polar bear buttons.”
A husky man raised a hand and requested the door.
“The chair recognizes Wetherby Goode.”
The WPKX meteorologist said, “As the messenger who brings bad news, I expect to be shot… but it’s my duty to report that the long-range forecast for October gives thumbs-down to picnics, soccer games, parades, and outdoor festivals. We all remember the freak thaw last February. Everything points to freak weather in October; blizzards, sleet storms, sub-zero temperatures, high winds, and several feet of snow. Need I say more?”
He sat down, amid shouts of “Cancel it!… Postpone it!… Forget it!… Get out the polar bear buttons!”
Then a bell rang, and the sound of scraping chairs and feet running for the exit drowned out the shout of “Meeting adjourned!”
Qwilleran, the only Booster without a demanding schedule, ambled up Main Street to a shop with gold lettering on the window; Exbridge & Cobb, Fine Antiques. The window was always sparkling; the artifacts of brass and mahogany were always polished; and the prices were always high.
“Darling! I didn’t expect you so soon!” Susan cried.
“I’ll go away.”
“No! No! Come into my office and see the collection of banks.” She led the way to the rear and unlocked a closet where shelves were lined with nondescript metal objects measuring five or six inches in height and width.
He said, “I want to see the one that’s worth fifty thou.”
The dealer hesitated. “If you write about these, you can’t mention prices or the name of the owner. She’s an older woman. The banks were collected by her late husband.”
“I didn’t say I’d write about them, I just want to see them.”
“You’re so brutally honest, Qwill.”
The bank she showed him was a small iron sculpture of a circus pony and a clown.
“How does it work?” he asked.
“Do you have a penny? Put it in the coin receptacle and turn the crank.”
He did as instructed and watched the pony run around a circus ring while the clown deposited the penny in the bank.
Susan explained, “All of these banks have mechanical parts that activate a donkey or elephant or whatever. They became popular in the late nineteenth century when children were taught to save their pennies. This made it fun.”
“How many fifty-thousand-dollar banks do you expect to sell in Pickax?”
“None, darling. I’m advertising the rare ones in a national magazine. The others will be sold by telephone auction.”
