IN THE GOOD OLD SUMMER TIME
Cane's Marital Band never formally disbanded. Except as it was dissolved
by the rain it is still legally extant. But it never assembled again
after its initial appearance in public. However, its short term of
activity furnished the town with a topic of conversation for some time
to come; and although the subject was studiously avoided in the Cane
household, it was freely discussed in the barn.
Sube was unable to explain just how he happened to get into the hearse.
He didn't know, himself. And when pressed for particulars he instantly
took the defensive.
"I guess I didn't want to get wet, did I?" he demanded.
"Wet! Say, you was soaked before you ever went near that hearse!" cried
Gizzard, who was still suffering from a slight twinge of envy.
"Well, Hi Wilbur, who was drivin' it, hollered to me to shut the doors,
and when I was shuttin' 'em I saw how nice and dry it was inside, so I
told Biscuit to bring the drum down here to the barn, and I climbed in
and slammed the doors and had a bully ride! And say! I didn't tell you
about the drum, did I?"
"No, you didn't," muttered Gizzard, as there materialized before his
eyes a sadly ruptured drumhead. "What you goin' to do about it, anyway?"
"_Goin'_ to do?--I've done it!"
"Done it! What'd you do?"
"Why, Biscuit brought the drum back here to the barn. I had all I could
do to keep him from takin' it back to ol' lady Burton jus' it was. But I
tol' 'im Mr. Ingraham wasn't through with it yet, so he left it." The
boys grinned knowingly at each other as Sube continued: "Well, I washed
the printin' off and jus' soon as it got dark I sneaked the drum up on
Burton's front porch and turned the good side up, and then I rung the
bell and ducked. I hid behind a tree and watched and pretty soon ol'
lady Burton opened the door. When she got her eye on the drum she looked
all around for somebody, and when she couldn't find anybody she took it
inside.
"The next day she come to call on my mother, and I thought she'd come to
squeal on me, and I listened at the door so's to know what to say; but
she never said a word about the drum at all!"
"She didn't!" cried Gizzard delightedly.
"Never peeped about it!" Sube assured him. "But you'd ought to heard her
rip ol' Prof Ingraham up the back!"
"What's he been doin'?" asked Gizzard.
"I don't know. I couldn't understand; but she called him all kinds of
names! She said he was underbred and ign'rant and ill-mannered and
illiterate and a lot of stuff like that, and I most b'lieve we'll have a
new principal next year!"
"Say! She'd ought to gone to school to him for a while! He's the worst
principal to chew about manners I ever saw."
"Gee! Do you s'pose vacation'll ever get here?" sighed Sube.
"It don't ack like it," replied Gizzard dubiously. "Last week was about
six months long, and there was one day of vacation at that."
"Seems to me as if time was goin' backwards," complained Sube.
But it was not. It was going forward at its regular speed. The
difficulty was that the boys' minds were outstripping it. In due time
vacation arrived, and a long happy summer stretched itself out before
them.
Mr. Cane believed in vacations. He also believed in teaching boys to be
industrious. He still harbored the old-fashioned idea that every boy
should be required to do some useful work every day of his life, Sundays
excepted. And while Sube and his brothers with their more up-to-date
point of view could see the fallacy of his position, they were unable to
reform him with any amount of argument.
As Sube seated himself at the breakfast table one morning and glanced
over his working orders for the day, a scowl came over his usually sunny
countenance.
"What's the good of callin' it a vacation if a feller has to labor all
the time?" he muttered.
Mr. Cane glanced at Sube over the top of his newspaper as he replied:
"Now we are not going to open up that old discussion again. The way you
boys take on over an hour's work around the place makes me sick! Why,
when I was your age, Sube, I was glad to work from daylight until dark
for just my board; and it wasn't any such board as you boys get,
either."
"Yes, I'll bet you were glad," growled Sube.
"Certainly I was glad," his father assured him. "In those days boys
expected to work. They weren't brought up with the idea of lolling at
ease that you boys seem to have."
"Did you work every day?" asked Cathead.
"Every day."
"Every single day?"
"Certainly."
"Didn't you ever take a day off?"
"Oh, occasionally I'd take a day off to go fishing or do a little
studying--"
"I don't s'pose they had circuses in those days," interjected Sube.
"Oh, perhaps once during the summer my father would take me to see a
good dog and animal show," explained Mr. Cane as he folded his napkin
and left the table.
"They didn't use to go in swimmin' in those days, did they?" Sube
muttered, taking care that his father did not hear.
"Or play ball?" supplemented Cathead cautiously.
"Ain't that jus' like a man?" growled Sube as the door closed behind
their father. "Give a feller a lot of work to do and not even let him
_kick_ about it!"
"What you gotta do, anyway?" asked Cathead.
"Plenty," grunted Sube; "plenty."
"Well--I cut it the last time," ventured Cathead. "It's your turn."
"Yes, but it takes about half a day to cut the ol' lawn," grumbled Sube.
"I'll bet your job won't take you half an hour. What you got to do,
anyway?"
"Me? Oh, I got to thin the beets."
"Huh!--A snap!" sneered Sube, as he turned to his brother Sim, and
asked: "What'd he give you?"
"Sproutin' p'tatoes," answered Sim.
"How many you got to do?"
"Two bushels."
"Nuthin' but a picnic," declared Sube. "I'm the only one that's got a
_real_ job!"
After breakfast Sube repaired to the barn, where he found the lawn-mower
waiting for him.
"Ha! There you are, you ol' grass-chewer, you!" he exclaimed
malevolently. "Thought you'd catch me off my guard, didn't you?--Well
this is the way I treat vill'uns like _you_!" He seized an oil can, and
thrusting it between the blades of the lawn-mower as he would have
plunged a dagger between the ribs of an enemy, he gave several vicious
squirts. "There!" he cried. "Take that!--And that!"
He drew back a pace and contemplated his enemy witheringly. "'Nuff?--Oh!
Ain't you? Ain't you, now?--Well take that, then!--And that!" He gave
another cruel thrust into the very vitals of the defenseless machine,
and then withdrew his dripping blade. "You _will_ waylay me just inside
the door of this cave, will you!--You will, will you!--I guess you won't
do that again--"
"Who you talkin' to?" came a voice at the door.
Sube jumped back, ready for another antagonist, as Cathead entered.
"Oh! It's you, is it?" asked Sube, about equally divided between relief
and confusion. "I thought it was--that it might be--that--Why, I was
jus' oilin' the machine!"
But Cathead did not press the point. He had other things in view. "Say,
Sube," he began at once, "If you think thinnin' the beets is such a snap
job, what'll you take to do 'em?"
Sube turned on his brother with a glare as he replied: "What d'you think
I am! Don't you s'pose I got enough to do for one day?"
"Oh, you got enough to do without pay; but I was goin' to pay you,"
replied Cathead evenly.
"What do you want to do to-day?" demanded Sube.
"Nuthin' much. Do you want the job, or don't you?"
"I don't know yet. What'll you gimme?"
"I'll give you a dime. And it's an awful easy way to earn a dime, too,"
asserted Cathead suavely.
"I don't care so much about the money," vapored Sube; "but I'm goin' to
be awful tired when I get through cuttin' the lawn."
"Well, if you don't care about the money, what do you care about?"
demanded Cathead.
And suddenly Sube remembered all the valuable property he had parted
with in order to get a much-needed haircut, and that Cathead had
steadfastly refused to be treated like an "uncle," but had insisted that
he had bought everything outright.
"Let's see," muttered Sube; "you still got my automatic?"
This high-sounding weapon was an antique revolver with the cylinder
missing, but it was the apple of his eye.
"Why, yes," agreed Cathead. "I'll give you that."
"And my billiard ball?" added Sube.
Cathead had very little use for this misshapen trophy of the fire in the
People's Pool Parlor, and readily included it. And one by one Sube
enumerated all the things of which he had previously been mulcted, and
they all came back to him. Then Cathead took his fish-pole and hurried
off to join Cottontop Sigsbee for a day's sport with the finny family.
A few moments later, as Sube was trundling the lawn-mower out of the
barn door he was hailed by Sim.
"What you want?" asked Sube a little bit peevishly.
"I wanta talk to you a minute," replied Sim with a nervous laugh. "You
see, I was jus' down lookin' at those p'tatoes, and, now--you
know--now--you know I had to sprout a couple of bushels--"
Sim was at a loss for the words to express the desired meaning most
effectively.
"What of it?" grunted Sube. "Are you through?"
"I should say I ain't!" cried Sim. "Why, I ain't started yet!"
"You better get busy, then," advised Sube as he started on with the
mower.
"Wait a min-ute! Can't you?" cried Sim.
"I got work to do," asserted Sube as he brought the mower to a
standstill. "If you got an'thing to say to me, make it snappy."
"That's what I'm tryin' to do," whined Sim, "if you'll only hold your
horses long enough. Now--now I got a sore hand, and now--I can't sprout
p'tatoes very good; and now--what'll you take to sprout 'em?"
Sube glanced at his brother sharply. "Where you wanta go to-day?" he
demanded.
Sim squirmed uneasily as he scrutinized the palm of his injured hand,
looking in vain for something that even remotely resembled a sore spot,
and digging diligently with his thumbnail in the hope of unearthing one.
"Nowheres much," he replied finally.
"All right then! What you yappin' about? Go on back and do your work,"
advised Sube as he made a move to proceed with the lawn-mower.
"Aw, wait a min-ute! Can't you? Give a feller a chance to say some'pm!
Can't you?"
"Well?" Sube rested on his lawn-mower expectantly.
"Now--now Ted Horner's comin' for me at ha'past nine to see--now--to see
if I can--now--can go out to their farm to spend the day."
"Well?"
"Why, now--now--I thought maybe I could get you--"
Sube opened negotiations without waiting for Sim to conclude his
statements. "What'll you gimme?" he asked.
"What'll you take?"
"Well, what'll you gimme?"
"Well, what'll you take?"
"Look here!" cried Sube with exasperation. "Ain't I got to know what you
pay before I can go to work for you?"
"Yes, and ain't I got to know what you charge 'fore I can hire you?"
returned Sim feebly.
"Huh!" snorted Sube as he made a feint to go on with the lawn-mower.
Sim came to time. "Give you a dime," he offered magnanimously.
Without deigning to reply Sube started on with the mower. He had cut
twice across the lawn before Sim appeared at the corner of the house.
"Hey, Sube! Give you fifteen!" he called.
"Nuthin' doin'," returned Sube as he went about his work with renewed
vigor.
He had two more strips to his credit when Sim stayed his progress with
an offer of twenty cents.
"I don't work for less'n a quarter," Sube announced loftily as he
resumed his work.
"Hold on a minute! Can't you!" yelled Sim with unconcealed exasperation.
And as Sube halted in a position from which he could begin activities
again with very little effort, Sim continued more affably: "I only got
twenty cents! I can't give you any more than I got, can I?"
"You had a quarter a couple of days ago," charged Sube with an air of
suspicion. "What'd you do with the other nickel?"
"Spent it."
"What for?"
"Some new rubbers for my slingshot."
"Oh, that'll be all right!"
"_What_ will?"
"I'll take the twenty cents and the slingshot. Bring 'em to me before
you start."
And the lawn-mower moved on with just a little more noise and a little
more speed than before.