HOUSECLEANING
Dave Wilbur’s back-yard was, as has been said, a favorite meeting-place
for the Truesdell boys, and when for any reason secret sessions were
desirable, the garage was especially convenient. Here, on the following
afternoon, the seven prospective business men assembled to listen to
reports of their various committees and to discuss ways and means. Ned
Blake mounted a rickety step-ladder and called the meeting to order.
“I ran into a snag the moment I applied for a lease of the Coleson
property,” began Ned. “The town authorities are willing to get some
income from it to cover taxes, but it seems that to be legal the lease
must stand in the name of somebody over twenty-one years old. We can get
it for three months at twenty-five dollars a month, but the papers must
be made out to somebody of legal age.”
“That ought to be easy,” suggested Dick Somers. “I know Dad would let
the lease stand in his name, if I asked him to.”
Ned shook his head. “Of course we can get around it that way—and maybe
we’ll have to come to it; but this scheme is all our own and I’d like to
see us put it through and make a big success of it by our own efforts,
without calling on anybody’s father for help in any way.”
“That’s the stuff!” exclaimed Wat Sanford. “We want to run this thing on
our own. There ought to be some way to get around this silly legal
difficulty.”
“I’ve got an idea,” volunteered Tommy Beals from the front seat of the
flivver, where he had ensconced himself. “I talked with our man, Sam,
last night and he agreed to handle the refreshments for us. Why not have
the lease put in his name? That will cover the law and make Sam all the
more anxious to attend to his part of the business.”
“Bully idea, Patty!” chorused several voices.
“But will Sam agree to this?” asked Ned.
“Sure he will!” declared Beals. “He’ll be so swelled up when he sees his
name on a legal document that we’ll be lucky if he doesn’t bust! Leave
it to me.”
This the boys were willing to do, and the discussion proceeded to other
matters. Dick Somers and Charlie Rogers reported an option on the
purchase of two brooms and half a dozen steel floor-scrapers at four
dollars. Sandpaper and wax would bring the total to eight-fifty. They
had also arranged for the loan of two polishing brushes when needed.
Dave Wilbur and Wat Sanford had proved themselves shrewd business men in
the matter of interior decoration.
“Wat and I have contracted to tack up the usual flags and bunting around
the municipal band-stand on July third and take ’em down again on the
fifth,” explained Dave. “In return for this hard toil we are to have the
use of the stuff till Labor Day, when the town will need it again.”
“That’s a clever scheme and it will save us real money,” approved Ned.
“I’m a bit worried about all the hard work you’ve laid out for yourself,
Weary, but at that, I guess you’ll find it easier than scraping and
polishing floors.”
“Yeah, I kind of figured it would take the load off’n me for a couple of
days,” admitted Dave, with a grin.
These details being settled to the satisfaction of all, it was decided
to begin operations without further delay. Ned Blake, Tommy Beals and
Dave Wilbur started off in the flivver in quest of Sam, who, when found,
proved very willing to leave his labors in the Beals garden for the
purpose of signing an important document at the town hall. There was no
hitch this time, and very shortly a lease of the Coleson property to one
Samuel G. Washington, for the period of ninety days from date, was
signed, sealed and delivered, and with it the key to the house.
“Don’t say a word about this to anybody, Sam,” was Ned’s parting
injunction. “We want to keep the thing a secret as long as we can.”
“No sah, no sah, I don’t say nuthin’,” chuckled the negro and he
strutted back to his work in an ecstasy of self-importance.
After leaving Sam, the flivver was headed for the hardware store, where
the other boys were waiting, and with brooms and scrapers stowed in the
car they were soon on the way to the scene of their labors.
“Our first job is to sweep out this dust,” announced Ned, when the great
oaken door of the Coleson house had swing open at the turn of his newly
acquired key. “Open every shutter and let the wind blow through.”
Coats were discarded and brooms wielded with such good will that all the
floored portion of the lower story was speedily cleared of its heavy
deposit of dust and dirt. As fast as this was removed, the steel
scrapers were put to work and, by the time the long shadows warned of
supper time, a creditable showing had been made. A dip in the cold water
of the lake removed the grime and refreshed the spirits of the workers,
after which they climbed into the little car and rattled away for home,
well satisfied with their first day’s progress.
“All members of the orchestra meet for practice at my house tonight at
seven-thirty,” directed Jim Tapley, who, by reason of his superior
ability, was the acknowledged leader in things musical. “Come on over
and listen in, Fatty,” he continued hospitably.
“No, thanks,” declined the plump youth with some fervor. “My nerves are
none too strong after such a strenuous day and besides I’ve got an idea
that I want to work up.”
When Tommy Beals got an idea, he pursued it with vigor, and long after
the last wailing pulsation of the practicing orchestra had melted into
midnight silence, Tommy was still busily at work in his own room, upon
the walls of which were tacked several cleverly executed copies of his
“idea.”