"I want it, Jake."
"Look, kid, I can sell it for twenty."
"But I want it."
Jake eyed Jimmy thoughtfully, and he saw two things. One was a
thousand-dollar reward standing before him. The other was a row of prison
bars.
Jake could only collect one and avoid the other by being very sure that
Jimmy Holden remained grateful to Jake for Jake's shelter and protection.
He laughed roughly. "All right, Jimmy," he said. "You lift it and you can
have it."
Jimmy struggled with the typewriter, and succeeded only because it was a
new one made of the titanium-magnesium-aluminum alloys. It hung between
his little knees, almost--but not quite--touching the ground.
"You have it," said Jake. He lifted it lightly and carried it into the
boy's little bedroom.
Jimmy started after dinner. He picked out the letters with the same
painful search he'd used in typing his getaway letter. He made the
same mistakes he'd made before. It had taken him almost an hour and
nearly fifty sheets of paper to compose that first note without an
error; that was no way to run a railroad; now Jimmy was determined
to learn the proper operation of this machine. But finally the jagged
tack-tack--pause--tack-tack got on Jake's nerves.
Jake came in angrily. "You're wasting paper," he snapped. He eyed Jimmy
thoughtfully. "How come with your education you don't know how to type?"
"My father wouldn't let me."
"Seems your father wouldn't let you do anything."
"He said that I couldn't learn until I was old enough to learn properly.
He said I must not get into the habit of using the hunt-and-peck system,
or I'd never get out of it."
"So what are you doing now?"
"My father is dead."
"And anything he said before doesn't count any more?"
"He promised me that he'd start teaching me as soon as my hands were big
enough," said Jimmy soberly. "But he isn't here any more. So I've got to
learn my own way."
Jake reflected. Jimmy was a superior spotter. He was also a potential
danger; the other kids played it as a game and didn't really realize what
they were doing. This one knew precisely what he was doing, knew that it
was wrong, and had the lucidity of speech to explain in full detail. It
was a good idea to keep him content.
"If you'll stop that tap-tapping for tonight," promised Jake, "I'll get
you a book tomorrow. Is it a deal?"
"You will?"
"I will if you'll follow it."
"Sure thing."
"And," said Jake, pushing his advantage, "you'll do it with the door
closed so's I can hear this TV set."
"Yes sir."
Jake kept his word.
On the following afternoon, not only was Jimmy presented with one of the
standard learn-it-yourself books on touch-typing, but Jake also contrived
a sturdy desk out of one old packing case and a miniature chair out of
another. Both articles of home-brewed furniture Jake insisted upon having
painted before he permitted them inside his odd dwelling, and that
delayed Jimmy one more day.
But it was only one more day; and then a new era of experience began for
Jimmy.
It would be nice to report that he went at it with determination,
self-discipline, and system, following instructions to the letter and
emerging a first-rate typist.
Sorry. Jimmy hated every minute of it. He galled at the pages and pages
of _juj juj juj frf frf frf_. He cried with frustration because he could
not perform the simple exercise to perfection. He skipped through the
book so close to complete failure that he hurled it across the room, and
cried in anger because he had not the strength to throw the typewriter
after it. Throw the machine? He had not the strength in his pinky to
press the carriage-shift key!
Part of his difficulty was the size of his hands, of course. But most of
his trouble lay deep-seated in his recollection of his parents' fabulous
machine. It would have made a typist of him in a single half-hour
session, or so he thought.
He had yet to learn about the vast gulf that lies between theory and
practice.
It took Jimmy several weeks of aimless fiddling before he realized that
there was no easy short-cut. Then he went back to the _juj juj juj frf
frf frf_ routine and hated it just as much, but went on.
He invented a kind of home-study "hooky" to break the monotony. He would
run off a couple of pages of regular exercise, and then turn back to the
hunt-and-peck system of typing to work on a story. He took a furtive glee
in this; he felt that he was getting away with something. In mid-July,
Jake caught him at it.
"What's going on?" demanded Jake, waving the pages of manuscript copy.
"Typing," said Jimmy.
Jake picked up the typing guidebook and waved it under Jimmy's nose.
"Show me where it says you gotta type anything like, 'Captain Brandon
struggled against his chains when he heard Lady Hamilton scream. The
pirate's evil laugh rang through the ship. "Curse you--"'"
Jake snorted.
"But--" said Jimmy faintly.
"But nothing!" snapped Jake. "Stop the drivel and learn that thing! You
think I let you keep the machine just to play games? We gotta find a way
to make it pay off. Learn it good!"
He stamped out, taking the manuscript with him. From that moment on,
Jimmy's furtive career as an author went on only when Jake was either out
for the evening or entertaining. In any case, he did not bother Jimmy
further, evidently content to wait until Jimmy had "learned it good"
before putting this new accomplishment to use. Nor did Jimmy bother him.
It was a satisfactory arrangement for the time being. Jimmy hid his
"work" under a pile of raw paper and completed it in late August. Then,
with the brash assurance of youth, he packed and mailed his first
finished manuscript to the editor of _Boy's Magazine_.
His typing progressed more satisfactorily than he realized, even though
he was still running off page after page of repetitious exercise,
leavened now and then by a page of idiotic sentences the letters of
which were restricted to the center of the typewriter keyboard. The
practice, even the hunt-and-peck relaxation from discipline, exercised
the small muscles. Increased strength brought increased accuracy.
September rolled in, the streets emptied of school-aged children and the
out-of-state car licenses diminished to a trickle. With the end of the
carefree vacation days went the careless motorist.
Jake, whose motives were no more altruistic than his intentions were
legal, began to look for a means of disposing of Jimmy Holden at the
greatest profit to himself. Jake stalled only because he hoped that the
reward might be stepped up.
But it was Jimmy's own operations that closed this chapter of his life.