Jackpot Jack: A London Farce - страница 9

However, a prickle of unease, like a tiny thistle snagging on his sock, reminded him of the potential pitfalls. Salesmen, after all, were notorious prevaricators, smooth-talking charlatans, masters of exaggeration. They would spin yarns as long as fishing lines, their mouths moving faster than a hummingbird’s wings. Jack, with his mind a veritable pudding, would have to tread carefully, lest he be swayed by their persuasive pronouncements.

He took a deep breath, the air thick with the scent of dust and forgotten dreams. The bell above the door jingled merrily, announcing his arrival.

“Morning!” a voice boomed, startling Jack half out of his already shaky boots. “Looking for something, aren’t you?”

Jack blinked, momentarily speechless. “Uh…yes,” he stammered, feeling like a rabbit caught in the headlights. “A crutch, if you please.”

The vendor, a portly fellow with a walrus moustache and eyes that twinkled like distant stars, chuckled. “A crutch, eh? Well, you've come to the right place! Crutches galore! Step right this way, and let's find you a weapon – I mean, a support – fit for a king!”

Jack, poor Jack. It was only his imagination that ran wild. He pushed open the door, bells jingling with the enthusiasm of a choir of mischievous gremlins.

Inside, the atmosphere was about as cheerful as a tax audit. The proprietor, a fellow who looked as if he'd been carved from granite and marinated in gloom, stood behind the counter like a gargoyle guarding a particularly unappealing cathedral. He was older than time itself and looked about as happy as a badger in a tumble dryer.

The old man’s eyes, two beady black olives afloat in a sea of wrinkles, fixed upon Jack’s leg. He pointed a gnarled finger, like a wizened branch accusing the sky, towards a crutch leaning against the wall. Then, with the speed and grace of a snail stuck in treacle, he pointed at the price tag. And that, dear reader, was that. Not a “Good day to you, sir,” not a “Terrible weather we’re having,” not even a grunt of acknowledgement. Silence, deep and profound, filled the shop like a fog.

“Erm, hello?” Jack ventured, feeling rather like a goldfish trying to strike up a conversation with a shark. “I, uh, need a crutch. This one here, I suppose?”

The ancient proprietor merely blinked, his expression unchanging, a mask of utter indifference. He shuffled off to the till, moving with the alacrity of a tectonic plate, leaving Jack to ponder his options.

Jack was practically bursting with indignation. He imagined himself writing a scathing review in the shop's complaint book, detailing the appalling service, the lack of basic human decency. He paused, picturing himself hobbling to the next crutch shop, which was practically on the moon. Defeated, he sighed.

“How much is it then?” Jack mumbled, extracting his wallet.

The man pointed at the price tag again, a sum that felt suspiciously close to highway robbery. Jack paid, feeling as though he'd been personally insulted by the entire crutch-selling profession. He grabbed the crutch and limped out, the shop door slamming shut behind him with a final, dismissive thud. He felt like a wet cat, thoroughly and utterly humiliated. He was, to put it mildly, not a happy camper. The irony, of course, was that he now had a leg to stand on, but he felt as though he’d lost something far more valuable: his faith in the basic goodness of crutch shop owners, a faith that, admittedly, was never particularly robust to begin with.