The Talking Clock

Charter Three

The old one about making a loud noise outside the door on Christmas Eve and then coming in and telling the small boy that Santa Claus has just been shot, had been retired in Johnny Fletcher’s youth, but now Johnny Fletcher knew how that small boy had felt.

He stared at the express agent for five full seconds before he could gasp:

“What did you say?”

“I said, the express charges are nine dollars and forty-two cents.”

Beside Johnny Fletcher, burly Sam Cragg reeled and cried out in agony. “He sent them collect?”

“I don’t know about them,” the express agent said, laconically, “but there’s nine forty-two charges on that there case.”

A violent shudder ran through Johnny Fletcher’s lean frame. Then he said, desperately, “Look, Mister, I’m only a book salesman. I’ve had a little hard luck. My car collapsed in Bemidji. My assistant and I walked from there to here, because we knew these books would be here waiting for us. We’re broke, flat broke. We haven’t got a dime between us, but in that box are enough books to get us back on our feet. Now, if you could trust us until tomorrow I could sell enough books in that time to pay the charges—”

“No,” said the agent. “The express company doesn’t do business that way. If you can’t pay the charges, the stuff’ll have to go back to the shipper.”

“Suppose the sender can’t pay the charges either, what then?”

“Then we sell the box for the express charges.”

“But that’s ridiculous! Why, you’d have to hold it a full year before you could sell it and then, you’d get only your express charges out of it — if you’re lucky enough to find a buyer. Look, I’ll make you a proposition. That box contains a hundred books that I’ll sell for $2.95 each. Let me open the box, take out only four books… I’ll sell them inside of a half hour — even in a dull burg like this — then I’ll come back and pay you the full charges. That’s a sporting proposition, isn’t it?”

The express agent said, coldly, “Nine forty-two, or no books. That’s the only proposition that the express company will make.”

“Then keep the books!” roared Sam Cragg. “Keep them and—” He told the express agent what to do with them.

The agent smiled thinly. “You boys are really flat broke? You haven’t got even a dollar?”

“Of course we haven’t,” snarled Johnny Fletcher. “Would we be here so early in the morning, before breakfast, if we had any money?”

“No,” said the agent, nodding. “I didn’t think so. Well, it so happens that in addition to being the express agent, I’m also the town constable and we’ve got a village ordinance against vagrants. So, I’ll just have to take you boys over to the lockup. Come along, quietly, now, or—”

The alternative was never issued, for Johnny Fletcher and Sam Cragg almost took the door from its hinges in their sudden exodus from the express office. When the express agent-constable got to the sidewalk, Johnny and Sam were a half block up the street, just getting into their real stride.

They did not slacken their speed until they were well outside the town limits. Then Johnny Fletcher slowed up sufficiently for Sam Cragg to catch up. Sam wheezed like a New York taxicab.

“That’s the dirtiest trick Mort Murray ever played on us. Sending those books express collect! He should have known by our collect telegram that we were broke.”

Johnny shook his head. “It almost makes a fellow lose his faith in humanity. I can’t understand it. Mort never let us down before. After all, we don’t owe him so much. Just a few hundred.”

“It’s the Hoodoo,” cried Sam. “It’s been following us ever since we entered this state. Look, we went to the state fair. They get the biggest attendance there of any state fair in the country — as a rule. But what happened this year? It rained every day of the fair and the only people that came out were those who carried their own canoes with them. Then we came up to this Iron Range and our jalopy, which had only 160,000 miles on it, went all to pieces. And now — this!”

“This,” said Johnny, bitterly, “and in a strange country, with winter coming on. No overcoats, no books, no car. No nothing.”

Sam Cragg inhaled sharply. For him to complain was natural, but Johnny Fletcher — he gave his friend a startled glance.

“Oh, it could be worse, Johnny,” he said, backtracking. “Shucks, we’ve been broke lots of times and we always came out okay. You’ll think of something, Johnny. You always have.”

“Not here,” said Johnny, sadly. “I’m licked out in the wilderness. I doubt if I could even rub two boy scouts together and make a fire — if we had anything to cook over a fire.”

“Hey!” cried Sam, alarmed. “Don’t give up. There must be some towns and cities in this country… Look, there’s a road sign, now… Brooklands, two miles. That ain’t so far.”

“With a population of probably two hundred and ninety-four. You can’t pull anything in a town of that size. The natives are too suspicious. Why, I’ll bet they wouldn’t even cash a check for a fellow.”

Sam Cragg scowled. “That reminds me, there might be something in this book.” He reached to his hip pocket and brought out a paper-bound book that bore the title, Twenty Simple Card Tricks.

Johnny sighed. “Put it away, Sam. Card tricks won’t help. Now, if it told how to lay the note… but that wouldn’t be any good either. I haven’t got a note to lay.”

Johnny was referring to that little pastime in which certain devious gentlemen engaged. This little pastime consisted of going to stores with a ten-dollar bill, making a small purchase and then engaging in confusing exchanges of money, which somehow always resulted in the storekeeper losing money.

Johnny himself had never “laid the note” but he was almost desperate enough to attempt it… if he’d had the ten-dollar bill that was necessary to begin.

Brooklands was, as Johnny had gloomily predicted, a metropolis of around three hundred population. It consisted of a short street of store buildings and a few scattered residences on abbreviated side streets.

A ruddy-cheeked man of about fifty watched them approach the first building. When they came abreast of him, he stepped out and blocked their passage.

“Lookin’ for somebody, boys?” he asked, pleasantly.

“Who wants to know?” Johnny demanded, truculently.

“Why, I reckon I do, boys. I’m the constable… Whoa!…” He reached to his hip and whipped out a horse pistol that had undoubtedly seen service during the Civil War.

Johnny and Sam gave up their contemplated flight. Johnny said: “What’s the idea?”

“My cousin from Poplar City telephoned. Said a couple of boys were headed this way.” He winked. “We get two bucks apiece for vags. County’s got a lot of roadwork. Well, come along, boys.”

He waved the light artillery and Johnny and Sam trudged wearily to the jail at the far end of town, a surprisingly well-built one-story building.

A narrow room in front was evidently the constable’s office. To one side was a door made of criss-crossed straps of steel. The constable unlocked this door.

“In you go, boys. You got nothin’ to do the rest of the day. In the morning, the judge’ll give you thirty days. Thirty days to help improve our nice roads… What did you say, Fatty?”

Sam Cragg said, over his shoulder, “I hope your wife puts arsenic in your apple cider.”

Then he turned to survey the jail. It wasn’t a bad jail, as jails went. The room was large enough for a dozen beds and contained only five; substantial iron beds, complete with mattresses.

There were two inmates already in the jail, a youth of about twenty, who wore a suit of good material, even though it was somewhat spotted and wrinkled, and an old-timer, a regular bindle stiff.

The kid said, “Welcome to our hotel.” There wasn’t much enthusiasm in his tone.

“Howdy, folks,” Johnny said, pleasantly. “My name’s Fletcher and this big fellow is Sam Cragg.”

The boy smiled wanly. “My name’s Tom Quisenberry.”

“Glad to know you.” Johnny looked at the older hobo. The latter caught his eye, shook his head and mumbled something under his breath. Johnny shrugged and, moving to one of the beds, tested the mattress.

“Not bad,” he commented. “Not good, but not bad.”

Sam Cragg dropped his two hundred and twenty pounds onto one of the beds. He grunted. “It’ll do. I think I’ll catch me some rest to get in shape for that roadwork.”

Johnny Fletcher winced. “Yeah, the roadwork.” He looked at the boy. “The conny said they work the vags on the road. How come you two are taking it easy?”

Tom Quisenberry frowned. “He just came in a couple of hours ago and me — I guess, I’m not classified as a tramp. I’m waiting trial.”

“Oh-oh,” said Johnny. “Don’t tell me, now — you held up the Union Pacific, huh?”

Young Quisenberry chewed at his lower lip. “It’s not funny to me. In fact, I feel like hell.”