John Fitzgerald Read online

  Howard was sitting on the steps of his back porch when I arrived.

  "Would you rather have an Indian suit and war bonnet or your cap pistol and holster?" I asked him.

  He looked at me with a puzzled expression on his pumpkin-like face. "Why do you want another cap pistol?" he asked.

  "I'm just doing you a favor because you're my friend," I said. "You told me this morning you wanted an Indian suit and war bonnet."

  "I do," he said. "And I'll tell you why. When we play cowboy and Indians or cavalry and Indians I never get to be one of the tricky Indians. I've always wanted to be a tricky Indian but couldn't because I didn't have an Indian suit and war bonnet. I'll trade you, John. I only get to use the cap pistol on the fourth of July anyway. That is the only time my folks will let me buy caps for it."

  I left Howard's home with the cap pistol and holster. My next stop was the boardinghouse that Jimmie Peterson's mother owned. Poor Jimmie had to peel potatoes for the boarders almost every day after school. I found him on his back porch peeling spuds and dropping them into a bucket of water. I showed him the cap pistol and holster. "How would you like to own it?" I asked.

  He stood up and wiped his hands on the front of his shirt. Then he put on the holster and made a couple of practice draws with the cap pistol.

  "What do you want for it?" he asked.

  "I remember you telling me one of your mother's boarders gave you a scout knife for Christmas last year," I said. "That means you've got two scout knives. I'll trade you the cap pistol and holster for one of them.

  Jimmie thought for a moment. "A scout knife is worth more than a cap pistol and holster," he said.

  "Just tell me how you can whittle or do anything with two scout knives at the same time," I said. "It's like having four legs when you only need two to walk on. I figured I was doing you a favor by taking one of the knives off your hands and trading you something you really need and want."

  I knew I had him when Jimmie made a couple more practice draws.

  "I'll trade my old scout knife but not the new one," he said.

  "It's a deal," I said.

  I left Jimmie's back porch feeling mighty proud of myself as a trader. I'd started out with Tom's old Indian suit and war bonnet that was just lying around in our attic and now had a scout knife.

  The next day after school I told Frank Jensen I wanted to talk to him. It was his brother Allan's week to do my chores. I knew their dog Lady had given birth to another litter of pups, which were now weaned. Some mongrel dog was the father. They had given away all but two pups which Frank and Allan had kept for themselves.

  "You told me yesterday that you wanted a scout knife more than anything else," I said to Frank. "I'll trade you a scout knife for a pup." I showed him the knife.

  He opened all the blades to make sure none were broken. Then he looked at the handle.

  "There is a piece of bone missing on the handle," he said.

  "What did you expect for a mongrel pup?" I demanded. "A brand new knife? If you don't want to trade, just say so." But I knew from the way he was admiring the knife that I had him.

  "I'll trade," he said.

  I walked home with him and got the pup. My next stop was Andy Anderson's house. Andy was a boy who had lost his left leg just below the knee. He had a peg leg. He was in their woodshed chopping kindling wood on a chopping block made from the trunk of a tree. He stared at the puppy in my arms.

  "Where did you get the pup?" he asked.

  "From Frank Jensen," I answered.

  He slammed the hatchet into the chopping block. "That ain't fair," he said. "You already got two dogs. I asked Frank and Allan for a pup after my dog died. But they said all the pups were spoken for."

  "They were," I said. "This was Frank's own pup. I traded him a scout knife for it. And I'm here to do more trading if you want the pup."

  Andy patted the pup on the head. "What do you want for him?" he asked.

  "You are getting too big for that wagon of yours," I said. "I'll trade you the pup for the wagon. Then I'm going to trade the wagon to Roger Gillis."

  "Boy, you are sure doing a lot of trading," Andy said. "But you are right. I was going to ask for a new wagon for Christmas. Give me the pup and take the wagon."

  The next day after school I asked Roger Gillis, who was only seven years old, to come to our barn with me. I showed him the wagon.

  "It looks like the one Andy Anderson had," Roger said.

  "It is," I said. "I traded him for it."

  "What are you going to do with it?" he asked. "You got a wagon and this one is too little for you anyway.

  "Remember the air rifle your uncle gave you for your birthday," I said. "You told me your mother put it away and won't let you use it."

  "She says I'm too little to have an air rifle," Roger said. "Said I couldn't have it until I was nine or ten years old."

  "Then what good is it to you?" I asked. Boy, oh, boy, was I getting to be a sharpie at this trading business. "I'll trade you the wagon for the air rifle. Your mother will probably be glad to get rid of the air rifle if she is so afraid of you using it."

  "Let's go ask her," Roger said. And when he picked up the handle of the wagon and began pulling it, I knew I had him.

  Mrs. Gillis acted as if I was doing her a big favor trading the wagon for the air rifle. My next stop was in the alley behind the Palace Cafe on the east side of town. Basil Kokovinis lived in an apartment above the cafe with his mother and father. He was helping out in the kitchen when I called to him through the screen door. I remembered Basil telling me that some cowboy had given his father a riding quirt with a short handle and lash of braided rawhide as security for a meal ticket. The cowboy never came back to redeem the riding quirt. It was useless to Basil or his father because they didn't own a horse.

  I handed Basil the air rifle when he came to the screen door. "I'll trade you for the riding quirt you told me about," I said.

  Basil ran back into the kitchen with the air rifle. I heard him talking half in Greek and half in English with his father. In a few minutes he came out and handed me the riding quirt.

  That finished my trading for that day. And I couldn't help thinking that I just might end up becoming the greatest sharpie in Utah someday.

  The next morning I talked to Danny Forester, who raised Belgian hare rabbits. When school let out, I traded Danny the riding quirt for a doe rabbit. A short time later I arrived at the home of Parley Benson with the doe in my arms. Parley was in their barn filling the manger with hay for their livestock. He jabbed the pitchfork into a pile of hay when he saw the rabbit in my arms.

  "That is a Belgian hare rabbit," he said. "Is it a doe?"

  "It's a female," I said. "Just what you said you wanted. I'm here to make a trade."

  Parley pushed his coonskin cap to the back of his head. "Just name it," he said. "My doe died, and what good is a buck rabbit without a doe? I tried to get a doe from Danny but he wanted cash and I didn't have enough." He paused, looking puzzled. "Where did you get it?" he asked.

  "From Danny," I answered. "I traded him a riding quirt for it. Now I'll trade you the doe for that genuine Indian bow and arrow you own."

  "It's a deal," Parley said. "I need the doe more than I do the bow and arrow."

  My next stop was the home of Seth Smith. He had just finished dumping a bucketful of slops into the trough in their pigpen. He put the bucket down and stared at the bow and arrow.

  "Where did you get the bow and arrow?" he asked. "It's a beauty."

  I handed the bow and arrow to him. "You can see for yourself it is a genuine Indian bow and arrow," I said. "I got it from Parley Benson."

  Seth admired the bow and tested it. "Boy, I wish it was mine," he said. "What do you want for it, John?"

  It never occurred to me until that moment that I didn't know what I wanted for the bow and arrow. Mr. Kramer knew when he started out with his saddle horse that he wanted to end up with a team of mules. I'd known what every kid wanted
, and got it for them with my sharp trading. But I didn't know what I wanted. I had just about everything a kid could want.

  "What have you got that you'll trade me for it?" I asked Seth.

  "How about a knife?" he asked.

  "I’ve got a scout knife, I answered.

  "How about some marbles, including my genuine taw?" Seth asked.

  "I've got all the marbles I need," I said.

  One by one Seth named all his worldly possessions. But there wasn't a thing he had that I wanted or needed.

  "How about a cash deal?" I asked.

  "All I've got is about twelve cents," he said. "I used the rest of the money I had saved up to buy Ma a birthday present."

  "Then I guess I'll just have to keep the bow and arrow," I said. "But I don't want it. I've already got one."

  Seth looked around desperately until his eye fell on the pigpen. "You ain't got a pig," he said.

  "That's right," I said. "I don't own a pig."

  Seth motioned for me to follow him and look into the pigpen. "Our sow just finished weaning a litter of piglets," he said. "Pa said I could have one for feeding the pigs. I was going to raise it until it got big enough to sell. I'll trade you a piglet for the bow and arrow. Take your pick of the litter."

  I had never fully realized how cute baby pigs were. I leaned over and picked up a little black and white sow.

  "You've got yourself a deal," I said.

  I couldn't help feeling very proud of myself as a trader as I walked home with the little sow in my arms. I'd started out with just an old Indian suit and war bonnet and now I owned a pig. Then a brilliant idea hit me. Why didn't I go into the pig raising business? I could raise the little sow until she was old enough to sell for butchering. I'd get enough money to buy about three weanling pigs. And I'd raise them until they were old enough to sell. But I'd only sell two of them and buy a boar. Then I'd breed my sow to the boar. And that would give me a litter of pigs. In no time at all I'd own a lot of pigs. I would keep breeding them and selling them and make a fortune. Even Tom with his great brain never came up with a brilliant idea for making money like this. I'd put the little sow in the barn for tonight. Tomorrow after school I'd get some wooden crates from Mr. Harmon at the Z.C.M.I, store and build a pigpen. I was so proud of myself, I just had to show Mamma the little sow before I put her in the barn.

  Mamma and Aunt Bertha were starting to prepare supper in the kitchen. Mamma put her hands on her hips as she always did when angry.

  "John Dennis, just what do you think you are doing with that pig?" she demanded.

  I couldn't understand why she was angry. I knew as soon as I told her about all the sharp trading I had done that she would be proud of me. And I knew she'd be even prouder when I told her about my plans to go into the pig raising business. So I told her and Aunt Bertha all about it, right from the beginning. It was strange but the more they listened, the angrier Mamma looked.

  "What is the matter with you, Mamma?" I asked as I finished. "You look angry when you should look proud for having such a shrewd and clever son. I'm going to raise pigs and make a lot of money."

  "Well, you certainly aren't going to raise them around here," Mamma said sharply. "I do not mind horses. I do not mind a milk cow. I do not mind chickens. But there is one thing I will never permit and that is a pigpen in our backyard. Now just march yourself back to Seth Smith and give him back his pig."

  "But Mamma ..." I started to protest.

  "There are no buts, and there will be no pigs," Mamma said firmly. "You get rid of that pig and do it right now."

  Boy, oh, boy, what a disaster this was after all my sharp trading. I knew there was never any appealing one of Mamma's decisions. I went back to Seth's house, and found him practicing with the bow and arrow in his backyard.

  "Trade me back," I said. "My mother won't let me keep the sow."

  "A trade is a trade," Seth said.

  "But my mother says I can't keep the pig," I protested. "What can I do with it?"

  Seth thought for a moment. "Maybe I could board the sow for you until it got big enough to sell," he said.

  "That is a peach of an idea," I said, feeling mighty relieved. "How much will it cost?"

  "Growing pigs eat a lot," he said. "I figure it will cost you about ten cents a week."

  He had me over a barrel and knew it. "All right," I said. "I'll pay you when I sell it."

  Seth shook his head. "Nope," he said. "What if she gets sick and dies? You will have to pay in advance every week."

  I sure as heck wasn't going to be paying ten cents a week to Seth and then have the pig die on me before she was old enough to sell.

  "I won't pay in advance," I said.

  "It is your sow," he said. "I don't care what you do with it. But I might do you a favor and take it off your hands, seeing as how your Ma won't let you keep it."

  "And I won't have to pay ten cents a week?" I asked.

  "Nope," Seth said, "providing you give me back the pig and I get to keep the bow and arrow."

  "It's a deal," I said. I handed the little sow to Seth and watched him put it back in the pigpen.

  As I walked home I wondered if Mr. Kramer had ever ended up on the short end of a trade the way I had. I didn't think so. There was more to this trading business than I had thought. One thing I knew for sure. This was going to be the end of my trading days.

  Mamma, of course, had to tell Papa all about it during supper. I sure didn't think it was funny, but it made Papa laugh.

  "I guess, J.D.," he said, "that you got the idea from Alex Kramer."

  "And I guess, Papa," I said, "that I'm just a born loser."

  Papa stopped laughing. His face became serious and so did his voice. "There is no such a thing as a born loser," he said. "But there are people who continually overreach themselves. And when they fail to achieve their objective, they call themselves born losers and wallow in self-pity."

  "I don't quite understand," I said.

  "Every person on this earth is limited to what they can do in life by what is called inherent talent and native ability," Papa said. "This determines what each person can do best. One man might have the inherent ability to become a great musician while another couldn't become a great musician if he practiced all his life."

  "How do you know what you can do best?" I asked.

  "A great burning desire to become something is a good indication a person has the ability for it," Papa said. "A man who has this desire to become a doctor or lawyer or journalist or merchant or teacher or farmer and so on almost always achieves his goal. And it is this gift of birth that divides people into all the vocations that are needed for mankind to survive. But there are some people who stifle this desire to be something they can be. They are motivated by admiration or envy to try to be something else. For example, J.D., you were motivated by admiration for Alex Kramer to become a trader, although you lacked the ability to be a successful trader. As a result you failed."

  Papa leaned back in his chair. "And while we are on the subject," he said, "I think it is high time you stopped trying to imitate your brother Tom. I know your admiration for him has made you try to take his place. But you lack the shrewdness of your brother, so you can never even come close to taking his place. Find your own identity and say to yourself, this is me, and I can't be anybody but me. Know thyself and be thyself. That is the key to a happy and well-adjusted life."

  At first I thought that Papa was telling me in a polite way that I was pretty darn dumb. I'd got nine kids things they wanted and what did I get out of it? Absolutely nothing. And when Tom found out I'd traded away his old Indian suit and war bonnet, he would probably claim they were priceless heirlooms or something and charge me plenty.

  But the more I thought about what Papa had told me, the more convinced I became that he wasn't just telling me I was dumb. What he said about being yourself made sense. And I figured the best way to begin to know myself was by admitting that I only had a little brain, and the best way
to start being myself was to stop trying to imitate my brother Tom.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Frankie Pennyworth

  I FIGURED NOW THAT I'd learned to know myself and just be myself that all my troubles were over. I was looking forward to the "happy and well-adjusted life" Papa had promised me. I began by telling Frank and Allan Jensen that I'd do my own chores from now on. I talked this over with Papa first. He was pleased I'd given up trying to imitate Tom but worried about Frank and Allan not having any spending money. He solved the problem by hiring them for ten cents a week to deliver the Advocate every Tuesday after school.