Уильям Макгиверн: Collected Fiction: 1940-1963

Thaddeus Throckmorton, in the person of John Brown, stood on the floor of the washing machine department. He raked his eyes over the circle of curious customers drifting about.

“By thunder,” he shouted, “you need washing machines and I’m going to sell ’em to you. You need washing machines more than any crowd I have ever seen.” He paused to let this sink in and then suddenly pointed dramatically to a large florid-faced gentleman who blushed painfully as Throckmorton glared at him.

“You,” Throckmorton said bitterly, “look as if you haven’t laundered that shirt you’re wearing for two weeks. It’s a disgrace. I doubt very much if the management would allow me to sell you a machine. After all,” he said frigidly, “a Throckmorton washer has a certain position to maintain.”

“Is that so?” the florid-faced gentleman said belligerently. “If you think I’m not good enough for your machines you’re nuts. I’ll buy a machine — I’ll buy two machines and you won’t stop me. If you try it I’ll sue you and the company for plenty.”

“If you’re small enough to take advantage of a legal technicality,” Throckmorton said icily, “there’s nothing I can do about it. Take the machines. Both of them,” he added with a peculiar gleam in his eye.

In a minute the florid-faced gentleman was signing the order blank which Throckmorton had thrust contemptuously into his hands.

“I know my rights,” he said loudly. “These big stores can’t make a monkey out of me.” Holding his receipt aloft like a victory banner he struggled through the growing crowd and disappeared.

Throckmorton paused only long enough to insert a fresh order blank in his book before singling out the next victim. His greedy eye fastened on a pale, thin young man in the front row.

The intended victim began to cast about for an avenue of escape as Throckmorton bore down on him.

“Young man,” Throckmorton began pleasantly enough, “you need a washing machine.”

The prospect retreated a step. “No,” he said feebly, “I don’t.”

“Don’t contradict me,” Throckmorton said sharply. He extended the order blank inexorably. “Right on the bottom line.”

“We send our laundry out,” the thin young man protested.

“Stop changing the subject,” Throckmorton said irritably. “You’re trying my patience. I warn you, don’t push me too far. No more nonsense. Sign right here.”

“But,” the young man repeated wildly, “we send our laundry out.”

“Oh for the Lord’s sake,” Throckmorton exploded, “will you stop drooling about what you do with your laundry? You’ve just about exhausted the possibilities of that subject.”

“But what’ll I do with a washing machine?”

“This is not the information desk,” Throckmorton said witheringly. “But since you are apparently incapable of thinking for yourself, I’ll tell you. You can wash the dishes in it.”

The young man looked dubious. He also looked desperate.

“Won’t they break?” he asked hopefully.

“Not if you use cardboard dishes,” Throckmorton said in the tone one uses with a backward child. “Now,” he continued ominously, “any more objections?”

The young man shook his head weakly. He signed falteringly and scuttled away shaking his head foolishly.

Customers, attracted by the crowd, were hurrying to the scene, jostling one another and overflowing into the aisles and adjoining sections.

Throckmorton was in his element. He was always at his best before a large audience. And now he proceeded to go to town.

“Take your time,” he said in a voice that would have done justice to a circus barker. “There’s one for everybody. No one will be disappointed.” He ran an eye over the crowd and at that minute a happy inspiration occurred to him. It was so simple that he wondered why he had not thought of it at once.

“To save time,” he announced pompously, “I shall have to ask you to form a line, starting at this counter and extending back as far as necessary. In that way I won’t be bothered running about from person to person.” He clapped his hands together smartly. “Quickly now, double file. A little snap to it, please.”

A lieutenant, perhaps even a general, would have envied the authority Mr. Throckmorton put into these last commands.

Those on the fringes of the crowd began to melt away, but the majority, hypnotized by Mr. Throckmorton’s Napoleonic manner, filed meekly into line.

Like a bossy traffic cop, he harangued them until an orderly procession wound snake-like out of the washing machine department and into the rest of the store. Then, pompously and importantly, Mr. Throckmorton strode to the head of the line. Rubbing his hands gloatingly he went to work.

It was mass production for the masses. Assembly line selling. As the line filed past Mr. Throckmorton the stack of signed order blanks grew higher and higher. The few who demurred were contemptuously dismissed and subjected to a violent storm of abuse as they departed.

Mr. Throckmorton was enjoying himself immensely. He was enjoying himself to such an extent that he didn’t feel the tap on his shoulder until it was repeated for the third time.

He swung around, rather annoyed, to meet the stern and disapproving presence of Mr. Codger. Mr. Codger was floor manager. Mr. Codger stared at the crowd, at the apparent confusion and finally at what he thought to be Mr. Brown. He tweaked his sharp nose, a habit of his when he was not pleased.

“We are not,” he said coldly, “conducting a rummage sale. Your sales tactics are definitely out of line with our policy. If it happens again, Brown, you’re through.”

“To blazes with our policy,” Mr. Throckmorton bellowed. “I’m selling washing machines.” He picked up the thick pile of orders and shoved them into Codger’s hands. “Take these down to the stock room. Be back in an hour for more.”

Mr. Codger leafed through the blanks with widening eyes. Then he jerked a long form blank out of his pocket and ran a finger down a column. He grabbed Mr. Throckmorton by the arm, spinning him around.

“Don’t sell any more machines,” he hissed. “You’ve already sold more than we have in stock. It’ll be two weeks before we can get another supply. Now get these people out of here.”

“All out, eh?” observed Mr. Throckmorton with no little regret. “And just when it was getting to be such fun.” He was turning away from Mr. Codger when a gleam leaped into his eye, caused by the sight of the huge display washer.

“How about that one?” demanded Mr. Throckmorton. “Is it sold yet?”

“Don’t be absurd, Brown.” Codger’s voice was scornful. “That is merely for advertising purposes.”

“Is that so?” said Mr. Throckmorton in the tone of one who has accepted challenge. His eyes darted over the remaining line of curious customers. Then he rubbed his hands, moving off in the direction of a new victim...

It took John Brown a little while to get down to the washing machine section, and on arriving there he found bedlam.

John Brown managed to push his way through the jamming aisles. By the time he had reached the group crowded in front of the washing machine department, he was perspiring and out of breath.

Mr. Darnell, of neckties and ribbons, was futilely wringing his hands and fluttering around the fringes of the scene. Mr. Brown grabbed the fellow’s arm, drawing him aside from the commotion.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded.

Mr. Darnell was decidedly agitated. “It’s Brown,” he almost squealed. “The little fool, oh the little fool, it’s the second time today!”

John Brown had to shake the trembling Mr. Darnell to make him continue. “Come, come,” he shouted. “What happened?”