Quail Seed Page #2

"Quail Seed" is a short story by Hector Hugh Munro, better known by his pen name Saki. The narrative unfolds in the Edwardian era and centers around the themes of nature, societal norms, and the interplay between human desires and the natural world. The story follows the interactions between a landowner and a local man who brings news about a hawk threatening the quail population. As the characters engage in a battle of wits, the underlying tension and the unpredictable elements of fate are revealed, showcasing Saki's signature blend of wit and irony. The tale ultimately reflects on human folly and the capriciousness of life, consistent with Saki's style of dark humor and social commentary.

• Short story

								

home after a long day of fruitless subterranean research.  Almost at the
same moment the bearded stranger stalked into the shop, and flung an
order for a pound of dates and a tin of the best Smyrna halva across the
counter.  The most adventurous housewife in the locality had never heard
of halva, but Mr. Scarrick was apparently able to produce the best Smyrna
variety of it without a moment's hesitation.

"We might be living in the Arabian Nights," said Miss Fritten, excitedly.

"Hush!  Listen," beseeched Mrs. Greyes.

"Has the dark-faced boy, of whom I spoke yesterday, been here to-day?"
asked the stranger.

"We've had rather more people than usual in the shop to-day," said Mr.
Scarrick, "but I can't recall a boy such as you describe."

Mrs. Greyes and Miss Fritten looked round triumphantly at their friends.
It was, of course, deplorable that any one should treat the truth as an
article temporarily and excusably out of stock, but they felt gratified
that the vivid accounts they had given of Mr. Scarrick's traffic in
falsehoods should receive confirmation at first hand.

"I shall never again be able to believe what he tells me about the
absence of colouring matter in the jam," whispered an aunt of Mrs. Greyes
tragically.

The mysterious stranger took his departure; Laura Lipping distinctly saw
a snarl of baffled rage reveal itself behind his heavy moustache and
upturned astrachan collar.  After a cautious interval the seeker after
oranges emerged from behind the biscuit tins, having apparently failed to
find any individual orange that satisfied his requirements.  He, too,
took his departure, and the shop was slowly emptied of its parcel and
gossip laden customers.  It was Emily Yorling's "day", and most of the
shoppers made their way to her drawing-room.  To go direct from a
shopping expedition to a tea party was what was known locally as "living
in a whirl".

Two extra assistants had been engaged for the following afternoon, and
their services were in brisk demand; the shop was crowded.  People bought
and bought, and never seemed to get to the end of their lists.  Mr.
Scarrick had never had so little difficulty in persuading customers to
embark on new experiences in grocery wares.  Even those women whose
purchases were of modest proportions dawdled over them as though they had
brutal, drunken husbands to go home to.  The afternoon had dragged
uneventfully on, and there was a distinct buzz of unpent excitement when
a dark-eyed boy carrying a brass bowl entered the shop.  The excitement
seemed to have communicated itself to Mr. Scarrick; abruptly deserting a
lady who was making insincere inquiries about the home life of the Bombay
duck, he intercepted the newcomer on his way to the accustomed counter
and informed him, amid a deathlike hush, that he had run out of quail
seed.

The boy looked nervously round the shop, and turned hesitatingly to go.
He was again intercepted, this time by the nephew, who darted out from
behind his counter and said something about a better line of oranges.  The
boy's hesitation vanished; he almost scuttled into the obscurity of the
orange corner.  There was an expectant turn of public attention towards
the door, and the tall, bearded stranger made a really effective
entrance.  The aunt of Mrs. Greyes declared afterwards that she found
herself sub-consciously repeating "The Assyrian came down like a wolf on
the fold" under her breath, and she was generally believed.

The newcomer, too, was stopped before he reached the counter, but not by
Mr. Scarrick or his assistant.  A heavily veiled lady, whom no one had
hitherto noticed, rose languidly from a seat and greeted him in a clear,
penetrating voice.

"Your Excellency does his shopping himself?" she said.

"I order the things myself," he explained; "I find it difficult to make
my servants understand."

In a lower, but still perfectly audible, voice the veiled lady gave him a
piece of casual information.

"They have some excellent Jaffa oranges here."  Then with a tinkling
laugh she passed out of the shop.

The man glared all round the shop, and then, fixing his eyes
instinctively on the barrier of biscuit tins, demanded loudly of the
grocer: "You have, perhaps, some good Jaffa oranges?"

Every one expected an instant denial on the part of Mr. Scarrick of any
such possession.  Before he could answer, however, the boy had broken
forth from his sanctuary.  Holding his empty brass bowl before him he
passed out into the street.  His face was variously described afterwards
as masked with studied indifference, overspread with ghastly pallor, and
blazing with defiance.  Some said that his teeth chattered, others that
he went out whistling the Persian National Hymn.  There was no mistaking,
however, the effect produced by the encounter on the man who had seemed
to force it.  If a rabid dog or a rattlesnake had suddenly thrust its
companionship on him he could scarcely have displayed a greater access of
terror.  His air of authority and assertiveness had gone, his masterful
stride had given way to a furtive pacing to and fro, as of an animal
seeking an outlet for escape.  In a dazed perfunctory manner, always with
his eyes turning to watch the shop entrance, he gave a few random orders,
which the grocer made a show of entering in his book.  Now and then he
walked out into the street, looked anxiously in all directions, and
hurried back to keep up his pretence of shopping.  From one of these
sorties he did not return; he had dashed away into the dusk, and neither
he nor the dark-faced boy nor the veiled lady were seen again by the
expectant crowds that continued to throng the Scarrick establishment for
days to come.

* * * * *

"I can never thank you and your sister sufficiently," said the grocer.

"We enjoyed the fun of it," said the artist modestly, "and as for the
model, it was a welcome variation on posing for hours for 'The Lost
Hylas'."

"At any rate," said the grocer, "I insist on paying for the hire of the
black beard."
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