long as he had stopped to look into Mr. Wicker's window, which
was as far back as he could remember, Chris had never known the
objects to vary or be changed. There were three things that always
caught his eye, amid the litter of dusty pieces. On the left, the coil
of rope; in the center, the model of a sailing ship in a green glass
bottle, and on the right, the wooden statue of a Negro boy in baggy
trousers, Turkish jacket, and white turban. The figure was holding up
a wooden bouquet, the yellow paint peeling from the carved flowers.
The figure's mouth was open in an engaging toothy smile, and its right
hand was on one hip, on the chipped red paint of the baggy trousers.
The ship, so often contemplated by Chris that he knew every tiny
thread and delicately jointed board, was a three-masted schooner,
sleek of line, painted--at one time--a dazzling white. Now with dust
dulling the green sides of the bottle, its sails looked loose, its
sides grimed. But the name still showed at the prow, and many a time
Chris, safe at home in bed, had sailed imaginary voyages in the
_Mirabelle_. It lay there snug and captured, as if at the bottom of a
tropical sea, seen through the glass sides of the bottle, and Chris
never tired of looking at it.

But perhaps the coil of rope, so meaningless, so meaningful, held his
imagination by an even stronger hold. Why a coil of rope in an antique
shop? Who would want it? People bought rope in a hardware store--there
was one farther along M Street near the old deserted Lido Theatre. But
here, in an antique shop? Chris shook his head as he stared. He had
never seen anyone go into Mr. Wicker's shop, now he thought of it.
How then, did he live, and what did he ever sell?

A sudden car horn woke him from his dream. He looked up, seeing for
the first time the small card hung at eye level in the window. In a
beautiful script such as Chris had never seen before, but very
legible, the card read:

Boy Wanted.
Good Pay.
_W. Wicker._

Jakey Harris came back into Chris's thoughts. He looked over his
shoulder at the darkening sky streaked luridly with citrous strokes;
noticed the wheel and tackle high up at the loft door of the warehouse
opposite, and put his hand on the doorknob. The last flicker of light
scudded across the steel sides of the freeway to pick out the
lettering above the shop window.

W-LLM. WICKER, CURIOSITIES

Chris opened the door and a bell jangled, very faintly, but with
persistence