John Fitzgerald Read online

  For the next four days after school and all day on Saturday I hauled manure and took baths. Papa had often said that a man profits more spiritually from failure than he does from success. But I sure as heck didn't get any spiritual uplift unless maybe taking so many baths washed some of my sins away.

  But I wasn't going to let one failure get me down. I'd made the best deal of my life with Tom by renting his bike from him for ten cents a week while he was away at school. I had a scheme all figured out for making a fortune with the bike. Monday morning during recess I got all the kids together who didn't own bikes. I told them I would rent out Tom's bike for five cents a day and would be in our barn to sign up customers after school.

  I stopped at the Z.C.M.I. store after school and got a calendar from Mr. Harmon. The full name was Zion's Cooperative Mercantile Institute. They were stores owned by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints all over Utah which sold everything from toothpicks to wagons.

  Sammy Leeds was waiting in our barn when I arrived. He was puffing as if he'd run all the way from the schoolhouse. I didn't like Sammy because he was a smart aleck and bully, but business was business. I was both surprised and delighted when Sammy said he would take twenty days and dumped a total of one dollar in dimes, nickels, and pennies in a box I had in the barn.

  I tore off all the months on the calendar up to September and told Sammy to write his name on the twenty days he wanted to rent the bike. Parley Benson, wearing his coon-skin cap, came into the barn with Basil Kokovinis, a Greek boy whose father owned the Palace Cafe. Danny Forester, Howard Kay, Jimmie Peterson, and Seth Smith came in right behind them. They waited until Sammy had signed his name twenty times on the calendar and I had marked each day paid.

  "Before you fellows lay your money on the line," Sammy said, "I've taken all the Saturdays and Sundays for the next ten weeks. That means I'll get to ride the bike all day for my nickel but you fellows will only get to ride it after school for a couple of hours for your nickel."

  Parley pushed his coonskin cap to the back of his head. "I sure ain't going to pay to rent a bike when I'm sitting in school," he said.

  He and the other kids looked at me as if I'd just tried to rob their piggy banks, and walked out of the barn.

  "Tell you what I'll do," Sammy said. "Seeing as how I would only get to use the bike for a couple of hours on school days, I'll give you a penny a day. I know the other kids would pay you a penny too, but there will be days when nobody will rent the bike. I'll pay you cash right now for the next fifty school days."

  I knew Sammy was right, and five-cents-a-week profit was better than taking a chance of not renting the bike on some school days.

  "Why do you want the bike all for yourself for ten weeks?" I asked.

  "Mr. Nicholson at the drugstore wants a delivery boy with a bike to work after school and on Saturdays," Sammy said. "You will be helping me get the job, John, and you know my folks are poor and we can use the money."

  "The drugstore is closed on Sundays," I said. "Why did you want Sundays too?"

  "A fellow is entitled to a little fun after working all week, ain't he?" Sammy asked.

  I sure as heck didn't want to be known as a fellow who stopped a boy from getting a job and helping out his folks.

  "It's a deal," I said.

  Sammy put his hand in another pocket and took out exactly fifty cents in change as if he had known what was going to happen.

  The next day after school I had to deliver the weekly edition of Papa's newspaper to local subscribers at their homes and the ones with yellow mail stickers on them to the post office. Papa saw I was using my wagon instead of Tom's bike. I told him about the deal that I had made with Sammy Leeds. Papa pushed his green eyeshade up on his forehead.

  "I'm glad you helped Sammy get a job," he said, "but you had no right renting out something you do not own. And I hope you realize Sammy will just about wear out the tires in ten weeks on these gravel streets."

  "That is Tom's tough luck," I said.

  "No, J.D., that is your tough luck," Papa said. "You will buy new tires for your brother's bicycle."

  "But they will cost about three dollars," I protested, "and I am only making fifty cents on the whole deal."

  "I am sure you have enough money in your bank to buy the new tires when the time comes," Papa said.

  If I thought that was bad, the worst was yet to come. Sammy let all the kids know that Mr. Nicholson was paying him two dollars a week and in ten weeks he would have more than enough money saved to buy a bike of his own. He also told all the kids he would be at Smith's vacant lot on Sundays and they could rent the bike for a penny an hour.

  I learned later that Sammy had made seven cents renting the bike for one-hour rides that first Sunday. I knew he would go on making money every Sunday. And, oh, how I wished my little brain had thought of the idea first. Boy, oh, boy, what a catastrophe my career as a wheeler-dealer had turned out to be. If Papa was right about a fellow profiting spiritually from failure, I'd soon become the holiest kid in the world at the rate I was going.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A Born Loser

  MAMMA AND AUNT BERTHA had towels tied around their heads when Papa and I entered the kitchen for breakfast the next morning. It was their way of notifying us that fall housecleaning was to begin that day. During the next six days I discovered that Abraham Lincoln left out something when he freed the slaves—he forgot to include kids in the Emancipation Proclamation. I was so plumb tuckered out at night I could hardly do my homework. We finished all the housecleaning on Saturday. That was one Saturday night when Mamma didn't have to remind me it was time for my bath.

  "I am going to take my bath and go to bed," I said as we all sat in the parlor after supper was over.

  Mamma looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. "At seven o'clock?" she asked.

  "Not only that," I said, "but please don't call me until it is time to get up to go to school on Monday."

  Mamma smiled at me. "You have worked very hard, John D.," she said. "And when a person does his best without thought of reward it proves he has a good character."

  I had my own ideas about character but didn't mention them. There is something about housecleaning that completely changes a woman's character. Mamma had been a strange woman with a very sharp tongue for six days. She had been bossing me around all that time. I felt like telling her that us slaves didn't care whether we had a good or a bad character. But I was just too tired to start an argument.

  "Good night," I said.

  "Just a minute," Mamma said. "Your father has something for you."

  I forgot how tired I was as I watched Papa take out his purse and remove a half-dollar from it.

  "Your mother tells me you have earned this, J.D.," he said.

  "Thanks, Papa, and you too, Mamma," I said, as astonished as I was grateful. I was astonished at how dumb I'd been in thinking Papa and Mamma thought of me as just a free hired hand around the place. I was grateful because a half-dollar was a fortune.

  Papa celebrated the end of the fall housecleaning by inviting a stranger to dinner the next day. Papa was always inviting strangers to Sunday dinner. I mean, they were strangers to Mamma, Aunt Bertha, and me. Papa knew all the traveling salesmen who came to town. They were called "drummers" in those days. He also knew people who lived on ranches miles from town who only came to Adenville a couple of times each year. He made it his business to meet every stranger who arrived. From all these people he got news about other parts of Utah which he published in his newspaper. But Papa had a bad habit of always forgetting to tell Mamma he had invited somebody for Sunday dinner. She was used to it and always made sure there was plenty to eat for these unexpected guests.

  It was no surprise to Mamma when she answered the front doorbell at noon and saw a complete stranger standing before her. He was a tall middle-aged man with a black mustache so long it wiggled when he talked.

  "You must be Mrs. Fitzgerald," he said, taking off his black hat.
"Permit me to introduce myself. I am Alex Kramer. Your husband invited me for Sunday dinner."

  "Come right in, Mr. Kramer," Mamma said. "My husband will be with you in a few minutes. There are cigars in the humidor if you care to smoke. Dinner will be ready in about half an hour."

  "Thank you kindly, ma'am," Mr. Kramer said.

  Papa was on the back porch with me. We were repacking the ice cream freezer with ice and salt. We had made the ice cream earlier. We had to be careful because we both had on our Sunday clothes. We had just finished when Mamma came to the back porch.

  "Just who is Alex Kramer?" she asked.

  Papa snapped his fingers. "I forgot to tell you, Tena," he said. "I invited Alex to dinner."

  "You didn't answer my question," Mamma said.

  Papa hesitated for a moment. "Well, you might say that Alex is a trader," he said.

  "And what else might you say about him?" Mamma asked.

  Papa shrugged. "I suppose some people would call him a sharpie," he said. "And others might go so far as to call him a swindler of-sorts."

  "I knew it just by looking at him," Mamma said, as if exasperated. "You just don't seem to care who you invite into our home, do you?"

  "Alex is all right," Papa said. "I trust him implicitly. And he is a very interesting man to talk to."

  "Just make certain you count the cigars in your humidor when you go into the parlor," Mamma said. "Bertha and I will count the silverware after dinner."

  Papa stared at the screen door as Mamma slammed it going into the kitchen. "It is a strange thing about women, J.D.," he said, shaking his head. "A man never knows what to expect from them. And the longer you are married to them, the less you know what to expect. We will wash our hands and then I'll introduce you to Mr. Kramer."

  The man in the parlor was wearing a blue suit and shiny black boots. He had on a ruffled shirt with a shoestring necktie. He was smoking a cigar. And I couldn't help noticing that he had five cigars in the breast pocket of his suit. Papa noticed too.

  "I see you found the cigars, Alex," he said.

  "Didn't think you would mind, Fitz," Mr. Kramer said. Hardly anybody called Papa by his first name. Men, especially, called him Fitz.

  "Meet my youngest son, John," Papa said. "John, this is Mr. Kramer."

  Mr. Kramer shook my hand. "Glad to know you, young man," he said.

  "I'm glad to know you, sir," I said.

  Mr. Kramer looked at Papa. "Your wife is both beautiful and charming," he said.

  I wondered how charming he would have thought Mamma was if he could have heard what she said about him. "Thank you," Papa said. "Sit down, Alex. We have time for a smoke before dinner."

  Mr. Kramer sat down on the black leather chair that matched our couch. Papa sat in his rocking chair. He took a cigar from the humidor and used the clipper on the end of his watch chain to snip off the end. Then he lit the cigar and leaned back in his chair.

  "It has been a long time, Alex," Papa said, blowing some smoke toward the ceiling. "The last time I saw you I was publishing the Silverlode Advocate before the mining camp became a ghost town."

  "Must be close to fifteen years," Mr. Kramer said.

  "How is business with you?" Papa asked.

  "Not too good," Mr. Kramer answered. "I remember the time when I could start out with a sheep dog and trade myself right up to a good team of horses in no time at all. Either I am getting rusty or people are getting smarter."

  Papa laughed as he exhaled some smoke. "I remember one time in Silverlode when you started out with a pocketknife and ended up with a milk cow."

  "I recall that deal," Mr. Kramer said, puffing on his cigar. "I bought the pocketknife in Abie Classman's Emporium for fifty cents. I sold the milk cow to a Mormon for twenty dollars."

  "I think you topped that one the time you started out with a burro and ended up with a team of horses and a buggy," Papa said. I was listening so hard it felt as if my ears had doubled in size. Mr. Kramer made my brother Tom look like a piker. I knew it was rude to interrupt my elders but I was so curious I couldn't help it.

  "How did you do those things, Mr. Kramer?" I asked.

  He looked at Papa before answering.

  "Go ahead," Papa said. "It might save J.D. from getting skinned trading some time."

  Mr. Kramer knocked the ashes on his cigar into the ashtray. "It is what you might call trading up," he said. "First you find somebody who wants something they don't have more than they want something they own. You always get the best of the bargain because they are eager to exchange something they don't particularly need for something they really do want. Let us assume that you are a prospector and you own a horse but would rather have a burro. So you trade the horse for a burro although you know the horse is worth more."

  "Thank you for explaining," I said. I just couldn't understand why Papa had called Mr. Kramer a sharpie. For my money he was just doing people a favor, getting them something they wanted for something they didn't want.

  "I came into town riding a gentle saddle horse," Mr. Kramer said to Papa. "It would make a good horse for a lady. Know anybody who needs one?"

  "Not offhand," Papa said. "But if you can get your hands on a good team of mules I know where you can get a very good price for them. Pete Ferguson, who runs a logging camp about twenty miles from here, is looking for a good team of mules."

  Mr. Kramer smiled. "Then I'll just have to trade my saddle horse up to a team of mules," he said.

  "And I will bet you do it," Papa said with a laugh. Then his face became serious. "How are you fixed for money, Alex?"

  "I was hoping you would ask," Mr. Kramer said. "I could use the loan of twenty dollars until I get Mr. Ferguson his team of mules."

  Papa took out his purse. He handed Mr. Kramer four five-dollar gold pieces. Then he looked at me.

  "Mum's the word, J.D.," he said.

  "Mum's the word," I said, knowing Mamma wouldn't like Papa handing out twenty dollars to a man she believed to be a swindler. And I couldn't help wondering what made Papa think he could trust Mr. Kramer to pay him back.

  In a little while Mamma came into the parlor with Aunt Bertha. She introduced Aunt Bertha to Mr. Kramer and then said that dinner was ready.

  Papa was sure right about Mr. Kramer being an interesting man. He had Mamma and Aunt Bertha eating right out of his hand as he told them about the latest in ladies' fashions, and about some plays he'd seen at the Salt Lake Theater his last trip there. But best of all were the stories he told Papa and me later in the parlor while Mamma and Aunt Bertha were doing the dishes. One of them I remember very well.

  There was an old prospector named Harvey Reynolds who had been prospecting all over Colorado, Utah, and Nevada for many years without ever making a strike. He had a claim he was working near Eureka, Utah. One day he walked over to where another prospector named Gordon was working a claim. He offered to trade his claim to Gordon for six sticks of dynamite. The trade was made and Reynolds signed his claim over to Gordon. Then Reynolds said he wanted to get some tools out of the shaft of his claim. Instead, he went down to the bottom of the shaft, sat down on the six sticks of dynamite, and touched them off, blowing himself to smithereens. Gordon heard the explosion and ran over to the claim. He had to wait until the dust from the explosion had settled. There wasn't much left of Reynolds when Gordon got to the bottom of the shaft. But the dynamite blast had uncovered one of the richest veins of gold ore ever discovered in Eureka. Harvey Reynolds was within a foot of hitting this vein when he blew himself to kingdom come.

  The next morning I took a notebook with me to school. Mr. Alex Kramer had given me an idea which would make me the richest kid in Adenville and maybe in all of Utah. I figured if an adult could trade up, so could a kid. During the morning and afternoon recesses I talked to nine kids. When I came home from school I had the following list:

  Howard Kay Wants an Indian Suit and War Bonnet

  Jimmie Peterson Wants a Cap Pistol and Holster

  Ro
ger Gillis Wants a Wagon

  Basil Kokovinis Wants an Air Rifle

  Parley Benson Wants a Belgian Hare Doe Rabbit

  Frank Jensen Wants an Indian Scout Knife

  Seth Smith Wants a Genuine Indian Bow and Arrow

  Danny Forester Wants a Riding Quirt

  Andy Anderson Wants a Male Puppy

  I went up to my room to study the list. Mr. Kramer had said all a trader had to do was to find something somebody wanted. I knew what all these kids wanted. But I didn't know what they had that they didn't particularly want or need. Then, as I studied the list, I saw how easy it was going to be. I figured I'd start my trading with Howard Kay. My brother Tom's Indian suit and war bonnet were too small for him but would just fit Howard. Mamma was a saver who never threw anything away. She had just about everything Sweyn, Tom, and I had ever worn stored in the attic. I went up to the attic. It took some rummaging around, but I finally found the Indian suit and war bonnet stored in a box with old cowboy suits and other things.