SANDY'S STORY
For a moment or two Mr. Pertell seemed rather embarrassed. He feared
he had forced some unpleasant secret from the farmer, and he did not
want to hurt his feelings. Then, too, he remembered that Sandy had
hinted at some trouble at the farm. This was probably it, and it had
to do with money.
"Perhaps you would rather not talk about it," suggested the manager,
after a pause. He and Sandy were at one end of the porch now, the
others having gone in. Felix Apgar, preferring to let his son do the
talking, had risen from his chair, and was going slowly down the
gravel walk to close the gate lest some stray cow wander in from the
highway and eat his wife's favorite flowers.
"Oh, I reckon I might jest as well tell you," spoke Sandy, slowly.
"It's bound to come out sooner or later, and then everybody in
Beatonville will hear of our trouble."
"Then it is trouble?" asked Mr. Pertell.
"That's what it is."
"If I could do anything to help," suggested the manager, "I would be
glad to."
"No, I don't reckon you could, unless you wanted to invest quite a
sum of money in this farm," returned the young man.
"Well, I'm afraid I'm hardly ready to do that," declared Mr. Pertell.
"Farming isn't in my line, and I've got about all my spare funds
invested in the moving picture business. But if a loan would help
you----"
"That's th' trouble!" interrupted Sandy. "We've got too much of a
loan now, and we can't pay it off. Th' place is 'mortgaged up to th'
handle,' as they say out this way. That's why pa couldn't give you
permission to burn a barn.
"We have an old shack, that's almost toppling over, and it would be
better burned and out of th' way. But I guess Squire Blasdell would
object if you sot fire to it. The squire pretty near owns our place
with this mortgage; or, rather with th' mortgages of folks he
represents. He's a lawyer," he added simply. "But maybe if you paid
him what he thought the barn was wuth he'd let you fire it."
"Then I'll have to talk to him," went on Mr. Pertell. "I need a
barn-burning in one scene. It will be very effective, I think."
"Gosh! But you movin' picture fellers certainly do things," commented
Sandy. "You hire yachts to make believe take a trip to Europe, and
now you're wantin' to burn a barn! I never heard tell th' like of
such doin's."
"Oh, that's nothing to what some of them do," remarked the manager.
"Why, some of my competitors have bought old steamboats, taken them
out in mid-ocean, and set fire to them, just to get a rescue
picture."
"Get out!" cried Sandy, clearly incredulous.
"That's a fact," declared Mr. Pertell. "And, more than once, some of
them have bought old locomotives and coaches, and set them going
toward each other on the same track, to make a railroad collision."
"Do you mean it?" cried Sandy.
"I certainly do. Why, one manager actually burned up a whole mining
town just to get a good picture. He destroyed more than twenty
shacks. Of course they weren't very elaborate ones, but he got a fine
effect."
"Wa'al, then I reckon burnin' one barn isn't so wonderful," observed
Sandy.
"No, indeed. And I'll see Squire Blasdell the first thing in the
morning to get my plans ready for this. But I'm sorry to hear of your
trouble, Sandy, I sure am. What caused it; did the crops fail?"
"No, we've always had pretty good crops, or we wouldn't stay here,"
answered the young farmer. "But I don't reckon we'll be able to stay
here much longer. It will be hard for pa and ma, too. They don't want
to leave--it will break 'em all up. They've lived here all their
lives, and they counted on dyin' and bein' buried here. But I reckon
they won't now."
"Why not? Are you about to be put off the farm?"
"We will be, by fall, unless I can raise four thousand dollars--and I
can't do that, nohow," said Sandy, sadly.
"That's too bad," spoke the manager, sympathetically. "How did it all
come about? That is, if you don't mind telling me."
"Oh, no. I don't mind," answered the young farmer, in rather hopeless
tones. "You see father had a brother--Uncle Isaac he was, and he was
quite a business man, in a way. He used to farm it, but he gave that
up, and went into other schemes. I never knew rightly what they were,
but he used to make money--at least he must have got it somehow, for
he didn't work.
"Well, one time, several years ago, he came to pa and borrowed quite
a sum--more than five thousand dollars I've heard pa say it was. He
and ma had inherited most of it only a short time before from pa's
granduncle Nathan and they decided to keep it ready to pay off th'
mortgage, but 'fore pa could do that Uncle Isaac come and borrowed
it."
"But why did your uncle need to borrow money when he had so much of
his own?" asked Mr. Pertell, curiously.
"Wa'al, there was some business deal on. I never understood th' right
of it, and I don't believe pa did, either. All I know is that Uncle
Isaac got pa's money. I believe he wanted to go into some
scheme--Uncle Isaac did--and didn't have quite enough cash. He
promised to pay pa back in a few weeks, and give him big interest for
the use of the money.
"Pa set quite a store by Uncle Isaac, and so he let him have th'
money that ought to have gone to pay off th' mortgage. And then
things went wrong. Uncle Isaac died before he could pay pa back th'
money, and from then on things went from bad to worse, until now
we're goin' to lose th' farm."
"But my dear man!" exclaimed Mr. Pertell, "if your uncle owed your
father money, and your father had a note, or any paper to prove his
claim, he could collect from your uncle's estate."
"That's th' trouble," said Sandy. "There wasn't no estate."
"But he must have left something! What became of the money he got
from your father?"
"Nobody knew. You see poor Uncle Isaac went crazy before he died, and
was put in th' asylum. In fact, that's where he died. He was clean
out of his mind."
"But did you try to find what he had done with the money? I should
have thought you could do that."
"We did try, and even got a lawyer to try," replied Sandy. "But it
was no use. Uncle Isaac would only laugh at us. Poor fellow, he meant
all right, but his head give way. He wouldn't have cheated pa for the
world. It was jest an accident--that's all."
"You see he was near our threshing machine one day when there was an
accident. Somethin' broke and Uncle Isaac was hit on th' head. Not
hard enough to kill him, but it made him forget things, and he died
that way."
"But couldn't you tell from the papers he left where he had invested
the money--his own, as well as your father's?"
"That's th' odd part of it. We couldn't find a scrap of paper, nor a
dollar, among his things. You see Uncle Isaac was queer, even before
he went crazy. He didn't believe in banks, and he used to hide his
papers and money in all sorts of out-of-the-way places. He lived all
alone--an old bachelor."
"Did you search for his things?" asked Mr. Pertell, who was much
impressed by Sandy's story.
"Oh, yes! We searched all over!" exclaimed Sandy. "But we couldn't
find a thing. It's too bad, for Uncle Isaac never would have done it
for th' world, if he had been in his right mind."
"No, I suppose not," agreed Mr. Pertell. "Have you any papers to show
that your father let him have the money?"
"Oh, yes, we've got a note. But it's no good. Uncle Isaac is dead,
and he didn't leave nothin'. We've searched all over, and couldn't
find a thing. No, I reckon th' only thing to do is to lose the farm.
But it will come hard on pa and ma--it surely will."
Mr. Pertell said nothing. There was little he could say to make the
sad lot of the Apgar family any easier. The manager wished he could
provide the money himself, but, as he had said, he had invested all
his surplus cash in the moving picture business. The taking of the
rural dramas was going to cost considerable, too, and there would be
the added expense of burning the barn.
Mr. Pertell was paying a fair price for the use of the farm, and for
the board and lodging of his company. This would, in a measure, help
the Apgars, but it would not be anywhere near enough to save the
place.
"Well, it certainly is too bad," agreed the manager. "When I see
Squire Blasdell to ask permission to burn the barn, I'll see if he
won't wait a bit about foreclosing. Then perhaps we can think up some
other plan--or we may even help you find the money," he added,
hopefully.
"There ain't much chance of that," returned Sandy. "We've hunted high
and low for that money, or for any papers to tell where it might be.
As for Squire Blasdell, he's harder than flint. He wouldn't wait a
day after th' money was due. No, we've got to lose the farm."
Truly there seemed no way out, but Mr. Pertell was not one to give up
easily. He made up his mind that when he got the chance he would see
some of his friends in New York. He might be able to induce one of
them to provide the money, and take up the mortgage, holding it until
it could be paid off gradually. But he said nothing of this now, for
he did not want to raise false hopes.
"Well, I reckon I'll turn in," announced Sandy, after a bit. "I'm not
used to staying up late. Is everything all right?"
"Oh, yes, indeed--very nice," replied the manager. "I'm going to
start in planning to-morrow."
Sandy arose to go in, and, as he did so he peered out toward the
road. The moon had risen and it was quite light. Mr. Pertell saw a
dark figure slouching along the highway.
"That you, 'Bige?" called Sandy, evidently thinking he saw some
neighbor. But the man in the road did not answer. Instead he broke
into a run, as though frightened.
"That's queer!" exclaimed Sandy. "I'm going to see who that is."
"I'm with you!" declared the manager, and they hurried down the
gravel path.