A TRANSACTION IN NUTS.
“Gee! I never was so rich in my life!” exclaimed Joe Fletcher as he
counted over the $30 he had received from Dick and contemplated the
bills with a childish sort of delight.
“If Nathan Boggs had paid you what he owes you for your five months’
service on his farm, you’d have ninety dollars easy enough now,”
remarked his young partner and chum, tucking away his own “boodle” in a
safe place.
“Yep, I ’spect so,” grinned Joe, who was not lamenting the loss of that
$60 just at present.
“Boggs ought to be prosecuted and made to shell out.”
“And the screws ought to be put to Silas Maslin, too,” said Joe. “He
treated you worse, on the whole, than Boggs had the chance to do to me.”
“I don’t say he didn’t; but I’m satisfied if I never run across him
again. I can make my own way in the world, and I’m going to do it.”
“I’ll bet you will. You’re smart enough, all right,” answered Joe,
admiringly.
The boys had arranged with the stable keeper so they could sleep in the
building in the little room in the hayloft formerly occupied by Hiram
Bond.
On their return from the restaurant where they had had supper they
found a man waiting to see Dick.
“My name is Gibson,” said the stranger, introducing himself. “I’m from
Wayback, where I keep a general store. I’ve got a load of stuff I want
hauled out to my place. Hiram Bond used to do my carting, but as he
is dead and I’m told you have his outfit, I thought probably we could
strike a bargain between us. What’ll you charge me?”
“How far is Wayback from here?” asked Dick, who was ready to accept the
job if there was anything in it.
“Nigh on to forty-five miles.”
The boy pondered a moment and then named a figure.
Gibson started to dicker for a lower sum, but Dick cut him short.
“I wouldn’t do it for a cent lower, Mr. Gibson. I don’t know what
Hiram Bond was accustomed to charge you, but the price I’ve set is a
reasonable one. I had something else in view, but I’ll haul your goods
out to Wayback on the terms I’ve mentioned. Is it a bargain or not?”
Dick’s manner was thoroughly business-like, and he appeared to be
indifferent whether he got the job or not.
“But you’re only a boy,” persisted the Wayback storekeeper. “You ought
to do it cheaper than a man.”
“Think so?” retorted the lad, looking him in the eye. “Well, that isn’t
the way I do business. I expect to deliver your stuff in as good shape
as Hiram Bond would have done, so the fact that I am a boy can’t make
any difference.”
Mr. Gibson finally agreed to the charge and told Dick to be on hand at
a certain wholesale store in the morning, where he would meet him.
“All right. Good night, sir.”
Mr. Gibson had a free ride along with his goods, and the team reached
Wayback about nine o’clock next evening.
The boys carried the merchandise into the store, and as the storekeeper
had a barn large enough to accommodate the horses and wagon, Dick
arranged with him to put up his team there, they to sleep in the wagon
themselves.
While Dick and Joe were hitching up next morning a farmer came up in
company with Gibson and inquired what it would cost him to get a load
of potatoes to Albany.
“How much do you expect to get for them?” asked Dick.
The farmer, with some shrewdness, named a lower price than he actually
expected to receive, thinking thereby to cheapen the cartage.
“All right,” said Dick, promptly. “I’ll buy the lot from you for so
much”--naming a lower figure--“and I’ll pay you cash down for them.”
The farmer saw he had made a mistake and started to hedge, but Dick
said those were the only terms on which he would take the potatoes.
“But they’ll fetch more’n that in town,” objected the farmer.
“I expect to make a profit, or I shouldn’t have made you the offer,”
said Dick.
“But I made a mistake in putting the price too low. I can get more’n
that at a commission store in the city,” persisted the agriculturalist.
“I offer you spot cash,” and Dick yanked out his roll of bills, which
he displayed before the owner of the potatoes. “Take me up, and you’re
relieved of all further bother.”
The farmer needed the money, and the sight of the cash smothered his
scruples about selling at a reduced price, so the deal was closed on
the spot.
Dick drove around to his farm and examined his stock of potatoes.
He found them to be in all respects as they had been represented, so he
paid over the money and loaded them into the wagon.
“That was a good trade,” said Joe as they drove down the road.
“Yes; I expect to make at least twenty-five dollars out of them,”
replied his chum.
As a matter of fact he cleared $32, for the price had gone up a little
within the two days he had been away from the city.
Next day Dick picked up another cartage job as far as Newtown Junction
on the railroad.
Just before reaching his destination he noticed the section men
replacing a lot of old sleepers with new ones.
The old ones were tossed aside for the present, and he saw a group of
small boys carrying several of them off.
This put an idea into his head.
On his return he singled out the section boss and asked him if he could
have a few.
“Sure; take as many as you want,” replied the man, good-naturedly.
As Dick intended to take up the offer literally, he handed the boss a
dollar-bill.
The man grinned in a friendly way and turned away.
Then the two boys gradually filled up the wagon with the old ties as
they proceeded on their way.
Dick stopped at a large woodyard in Albany and sold the wood at a very
handsome profit, a third of which went to Joe.
“The firm of Armstrong & Fletcher seems to be doing pretty well, all
things considered,” remarked Joe as he added a few additional bills to
his small wad.
“That’s what we’re in business for,” was Dick’s reply.
Two weeks slipped by, and Dick managed to keep his team employed at
various odd jobs of hauling between the business section and the
suburbs of Albany.
His cash capital, after deducting all expenses to date, had increased
to $200.
He decided it was now time to look up his contemplated venture in nuts.
Accordingly he purchased the necessary supplies for a possible week’s
stay at the deserted farm, and they made an early start for the scene
of operations.
The nights were now cold and frosty, and the boys found it necessary
for comfort to keep up a good fire in the old, rusty stove, the only
article left behind by the former occupants when they moved away.
Just why this farm had been abandoned was not clearly understood, even
by Farmer Haywood, the nearest neighbor.
It had been vacant for more than a year, and a mildewed sign planted
near the fence gave the passerby notice that the place was for sale and
that information could be obtained from somebody whose name and address
were no longer decipherable.
Early on the morning succeeding their arrival Dick and Joe walked out
to the grove of nut trees and found the ground literally covered with
nuts.
It was fully a mile back of the house.
They brought the wagon to the edge of the wood and spent the whole day
loading up.
By keeping a careful count they found they had accumulated forty
bushels.
“This is first-class,” said Dick when they got back to the shelter of
the house. “I was afraid we might have to hang around here several days
before we could get busy. Now I guess we’ll be able to clean up this
place in a week, including, of course, the time spent in carting the
nuts to the city.”
Dick was not far out of the way in his calculation as to the time it
would take them to gather the plentiful supply of nuts to be found in
the grove.
“This will be our last load,” he said as they were driving back to the
abandoned farm eight days later, after having delivered and sold 150
bushels of nuts in Albany for $2.10 a bushel in bulk.
“Yes; there aren’t many more left,” said Joe, regretfully, for having
pocketed so far a matter of $100 as his share of the speculation, he
could not help wishing such a good thing would keep up indefinitely.
“What are we going to do next?” he added.
“The firm of Armstrong & Fletcher will probably dissolve, for the time
being, at any rate, as I expect to sell the team and start for New
York.”
“I’m sorry for that,” replied Joe, with a long face.
“I don’t know that you need be. There’s more money to be made in New
York,” said Dick, encouragingly.
“But you’ve got to know how to make it,” retorted Joe, who had lived
many years in the great metropolis himself and had found money-getting
a serious proposition there.
“You’ve got to know how to make it anywhere, for that matter,” said
Dick. “I’ve heard several people say that if you can’t make money in
New York you can’t make it anywhere.”
“The papers say there are a hundred thousand men out of work there all
the time.”
“That may be; but the same men are not out of work all the time.”
“Albany is the biggest town you’ve ever seen in all your life. Wait
till you strike New York, and you’ll be lost.”
“I think not, Joe, with you at my elbow to show me the ropes. I’ve cut
my eye-teeth in a pretty hard school, and even if I’m only sixteen, I
feel sure I can hold my own against the world. I’ve made nearly four
hundred dollars since I cut loose from Mr. Maslin, four weeks ago, and
I think that’s a pretty fair showing for a beginner.”
It was now quite dark, and a turn in the road brought them in sight of
the house.
“Hello!” exclaimed Joe, clutching Dick suddenly by the arm. “Someone is
before us this time.”
And he pointed to a light which shone from an end window of the kitchen.