Free Wild Rover No More: Being the Last Recorded Account of the Life & Times of Jacky Faber by L. A. Meyer Page A

butter and jam, I notice a little girl peeking shyly at me around the corner of the kitchen door. She seems to be about five years old—plainly too young to go to school—and she holds a doll tightly to her chest. I give her a broad wink and she disappears.
Probably the landlady’s child,
I reflect, as I knock off the rest of my breakfast, pat lips with napkin, and signal for the bill.
    When the reckoning is brought on a little silver tray, I pay, leaving a nice tip, and receive a bright smile and directions to the privy. I rise and go to it.
    As I had suspected, that particular room is very clean and well maintained—open window with filmy white curtains blowing in the slight breeze, sturdy wooden chair with white pot under, rack of clean towels, and washstand and mirror. It is the latter fixture that I need right now.
    I dive into my seabag and pull out my brush, cosmetic kit, and Scots bonnet. My inclination is to comb my hair into a sensible bun, but that would expose my dragon tattoo, and we certainly can’t have that in a would-be governess—
no, we can’t
—so I merely fluff it up a bit and hope that it passes scrutiny. My bonnet, with the brim turned down, goes on next—after I’ve removed the gay feathered cockade from its headband. Then some light powder, to cover up the blue powder burns that radiate from my right eye. I do not have to worry about my troublesome white eyebrow, for my good Higgins has procured a permanent hair dye that matches my natural locks and fixed it up quite nicely. No more makeup for the cheeks, or rouge for the lips, no, not for this job interview. Must be as proper as can be managed, given the raw Faber material.
    All that accomplished, I stride back into the street, mark again the still-closed bank, and spy a sundries store up ahead whose sign advertises it to be FILIBUSTER’S FINE EMPORIUM . I go in and look about. Sure enough, just about everything imaginable seems to be for sale here, from knives and forks, to leather goods, to sewing tools, to rolls of fabric. It even has a small counter, with fixed stools, that offers COLD, REFRESHING DRINKS, to wit: LEMON, CHERRY, AND ORANGE SODA-WATERS. SAFE FOR THE LITTLE ONES. NO ALCOHOL
. Hmmm . . . 
I’ll wager, though, there’s a goodly supply of something very akin to my good old Captain Jack’s Magic Elixer
—
that potion I had mixed up, bottled, and sold on my journey down the Mississippi several years ago, to the joy of all who purchased it—­under that pharmacy counter, for quick sale with a wink. My own Cap’n Jack’s had plenty of that forbidden liquid substance in it, as well as a goodly dash of opium, and I received very few complaints from my many satisfied customers. And I’ll bet the friendly Mr. Filibuster did not grow so sleek and prosperous solely by selling flavored water to kids.
    Mr. Filibuster himself is a very eager middle-aged man, portly, and bald on top, with a fringe of white fluffy hair over his ears and behind his neck. I look about at his ample stores, seeking something that might make me somewhat more presentable in the way of a governess, and yes, I find it. While scanning the round reading spectacles, which I find cumbersome and interfering with my so-far excellent eyesight, I discover a pair of pince-nez.
    Perfect!
They rest low on my nose, and I can peer out over the top of them, and they have a black ribbon attached with a clip, to affix to my front so they can be dropped anytime. Squinting into the mirror provided, I pronounce myself the perfect schoolmarm. Advancing to the counter, I purchase writing paper, a small bottle of mucilage, and, of course, an umbrella. Mr. Filibuster looks pleased as he totals up my purchases, and he smiles even more at my promise to return to sample more of his fine offerings.
    After leaving Filibuster’s Fine Emporium, MissAnnabelle H. Leigh walks up First Street, pauses a moment