20 AMERICAN BLUES THEATER THE GREATEST GIFT BY PHILIP VAN DOREN STERN WITH ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS living room, unhappy as he was, he could not help noticing with a secret grin that the too-high-priced blue sofa they often had quarreled over was there. Evidently Mary had gone through the same thing with Art Jenkins and had won the argument with him too. George got his satchel open. One of the brushes had a bright blue handle and varicolored bristles. It was obviously a brush not intended to be given away, but George didn’t care. He handed it to Mary. “This would be fine for your sofa,” he said. “My, that’s a pretty brush,” she exclaimed. “You’re giving it away free?” He nodded solemnly. “Special introductory offer. It’s one way for the company to keep excess profits down— share them with its friends.” She stroked the sofa gently with the brush, smoothing out the velvety nap. “It is a nice brush. Thank you. I—” There was a sudden scream from the kitchen, and two small children rushed in. A little, homely-faced girl flung herself into her mother’s arms, sobbing loudly as a boy of seven came running after her, snapping a toy pistol at her head. “Mommy, she won’t die,” he yelled. “I shot her a hunert times, but she won’t die.” He looks just like Art Jenkins, George thought. Acts like him too. The boy suddenly turned his attention to him. “Who’re you?” he demanded belligerently. He pointed his pistol at George and pulled the trigger. “You’re dead!” he cried. “You’re dead. Why don’t you fall down and die?” There was a heavy step on the porch. The boy looked frightened and backed away. George saw Mary glance apprehensively at the door. Art Jenkins came in. He stood for a moment in the doorway, clinging to the knob for support. His eyes were glazed, and his face was very red. “Who’s this?” he demanded thickly. “He’s a brush salesman,” Mary tried to explain. “He gave me this brush.” “Brush salesman!” Art sneered. “Well, tell him to get outa here. We don’t want no brushes.” Art hiccupped violently and lurched across the room to the sofa, where he sat down suddenly. “An’ we don’t want no brush salesmen neither.” George looked despairingly at Mary. Her eyes were begging him to go. Art had lifted his feet up on the sofa and was sprawling out on it, muttering unkind things about brush salesmen. George went to the door, followed by Art’s son, who kept snapping the pistol at him and saying: “You’re dead—dead—dead!” Perhaps the boy was right, George thought when he reached the porch. Maybe he was dead, or maybe this was all a bad dream from which he might eventually awake. He wanted to find the little man on the bridge again and try to persuade him to cancel the whole deal. He hurried down the hill and broke into a run when he neared the river. George was relieved to see the little stranger standing on the bridge. “I’ve had enough,” he gasped. “Get me out of this—you got me into it.” The stranger raised his eyebrows. “I got you into it! I like that! You were granted your wish. You got everything you asked for. You’re the freest man on earth now. You have no ties. You can go anywhere—do anything. What more can you possibly want?” “Change me back,” George pleaded. “Change me back—please. Not just for