MR. DUFF GIVES NOTICE
A few days later Willard received his license to operate the automobile
and for the next fortnight the affairs of the company went swimmingly.
Then one morning Mr. Duff informed them in his dreamy, detached way
that he wouldn’t be able to handle any more baggage for them.
“Connors was to see me last night and said as how I was interferin’
with his business,” explained the expressman. “So I guess I won’t be
workin’ any more for you.”
“Interfering with his business!” exclaimed Willard. “Well, why
shouldn’t you interfere with it if you want to?”
Mr. Duff shook his head and blinked. “He don’t like it.”
“Well, what of it? Haven’t you a perfect right to make a living?”
“I s’pose so,” sighed Mr. Duff.
“Then why do you let him tell you what you shall do or sha’n’t do?”
demanded Tom impatiently. “Gee, you’d think Connors owned this town!”
Mr. Duff viewed him thoughtfully for a moment. Then, “Well, he owns the
house I’m a-livin’ in, anyway,” he said reproachfully.
“Oh, he does!”
“Yep.” Mr. Duff nodded slowly. “And he says he might have to raise my
rent five dollars a month on me. Says if his business don’t improve
he’ll have to.”
“I see.” Willard nodded his head thoughtfully. “And he doesn’t want you
to haul any more baggage from the station, eh?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Why, confound it, you make more than five dollars a week doing our
work,” exclaimed Tom. “I should think you could afford to pay him more
rent if he asks it.”
But Mr. Duff shook his head. “He might keep on a-raisin’ of it,” he
said dejectedly. “And he might put me out. No, sir, I don’t want to do
anythin’ to anger Mr. Connors. ’Tain’t wisdom!”
And all the boys could say had no effect. Mr. Duff resolutely severed
his connections with the Benton and Morris Transportation Company then
and there, and the boys trundled off up the street with a new problem
confronting them.
“I suppose,” said Willard finally, “that we might have our passengers
hand over their trunk checks at the hotel. Connors couldn’t refuse to
take them then.”
“Why couldn’t he? He’s got Tom Meechin on his side, hasn’t he? Besides,
that wouldn’t be business. No, sir, if we carry passengers we’re
obliged to look after their baggage, and that’s all there is to it.
Isn’t there anyone else in this town that does expressing or jobbing?”
Willard shook his head. “I don’t think so. I made inquiries just after
we hired Duff; the day he got Mrs. Miller’s wardrobe trunk mixed up
with that drummer’s sample case. I guess the only thing for us to do is
to find a horse and wagon of our own. Wouldn’t there be room for them
in your stable?”
“I suppose so. There’d be plenty of room for the horse, anyway, and I
guess we could get the wagon in alongside the car if we had to. But
they’ll cost like anything, won’t they?”
“We might be able to hire them,” suggested Willard. “How would it do to
advertise?”
“All right, I guess. You’d have to drive the thing, Will.”
“I wouldn’t mind. It would be rather fun.”
“Maybe, but you couldn’t handle those big trunks, I’ll bet.”
“I couldn’t?” asked Willard confidently. “I’ll bet I could! Gus Tinker
would give me a hand at the station and the porter would help me at the
hotel.”
“How about when it was a private house? I’d like to see you wrestling
with a trunk like that wardrobe thing of Mrs. Miller’s you were just
talking about.”
“I’d manage somehow,” responded Willard doggedly. “Besides, you aren’t
obliged to carry trunks up any stairs. I’d just dump ’em at the door.”
“Yes, and have the women scolding you! If we have a horse and wagon
we’ll have to hire someone to drive it, Will, and handle the trunks.
That’s all there is to it. Meanwhile, we’ve got to think what to do for
the present. There’ll be trunks on the 11:34 as like as not.”
They were silent for a while. Tom drew The Ark up in front of his house
and poked the switch off with his foot and they sat there in the shade
of a big maple and thought hard. It was Tom who finally broke the
silence.
“Jerry Lippit’s father has a horse, hasn’t he?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes, a sort of a horse,” answered Willard. “But I don’t believe he’d
let us have him. He’s about a thousand years old; the horse, I mean.”
“I didn’t think you meant Mr. Lippit,” replied Tom sarcastically.
“There isn’t any harm in asking, anyhow. Let’s find Jerry and get him
to ask his father.”
“I don’t believe they have a wagon, though,” said Willard, as he
descended to crank the engine.
“We can find a wagon somewhere easily enough. Saunders has a lot of
second-hand ones and I guess we could rent one if we wanted to.”
Jerry Lippit, however, was not at home, and the boys spent the
better part of an hour tracking him down. They finally discovered
him at Spider Wells’, half-way up The Hill. Jerry and Spider were
concocting marvelous beverages on the back porch with the aid of much
ice, a bowl of sugar, three lemons and a bottle of vanilla flavoring
extract. Tom and Willard sampled the concoction, and, from motives of
diplomacy, voted it fine. Then, resolutely declining second helpings,
they unfolded their story, and Jerry was instantly filled with wild
enthusiasm. Likewise Spider.
“Great!” exulted Jerry. “You can take Julius Cæsar, of course! And
we’ll get a wagon from Saunders and Spider and I will drive it. That’s
dandy!”
Tom viewed Willard in dismay, but the latter never batted an eyelid.
“Fine!” he agreed. “Only thing is, I’m afraid you fellows will get
tired of it and then we’ll be just where we are now. Unless you’d
still let us use the horse. Of course we’ll pay for him.”
“We aren’t going to get tired, are we, Spider? Anyhow, if we do, you
can still have Julius Cæsar. I’ll ask father this noon. How much shall
I say you want to pay for him?”
“I don’t know,” replied Willard. “You see, Jerry, we’d feed him and
look after him, and that costs a good deal. I guess you’d better let
your father fix the price.”
“All right. I guess he’ll be glad to have someone take the old horse
off his hands and use him for his keep. He’s talked lots of times about
selling him, but we’ve had him so long he don’t hardly like to do it,
you see. Why, I suppose we’ve had Julius Cæsar ’most twenty years!”
“Great Scott!” gasped Tom. “How old is he?”
Jerry shook his head. “I don’t know,” he answered vaguely. “Maybe
thirty or forty.”
“Pshaw,” said Spider, “horses don’t live that long, ever; do they,
Will?”
“None of mine ever did,” replied Willard gravely. “Can he――can he go,
Jerry?”
“You bet he can! ’Course, he ain’t awfully fast now, you understand,
but he used to do a mile in two-ten――――”
“Oh, what a whopper!” shouted Spider.
“Well, two-something,” amended Jerry untroubledly. “Maybe it was
two-forty.”
“And maybe it was two-sixty,” suggested Tom laughingly. “Never mind,
though, if he can get from the station to town in half an hour he will
be good enough for us. We’ll look you up after dinner, Jerry, and see
what your father says. You try to make him let us have him.”
“Don’t you worry,” replied Jerry, pouring himself a third tumblerful
from the glass pitcher. “When he understands that I’m going to drive
him it’ll be all right.”
“Say, I’m going to drive him sometimes, ain’t I?” demanded Spider. “You
said――――”
“Of course,” answered Jerry impatiently from behind his glass. “Only
dad would feel easier in his mind, you see, if he knew I was in charge.
I’ll let you drive him――sometimes.”
Spider didn’t look quite satisfied with the tone of that promise, but
made no further protest, and Willard asked them if they wanted to take
a ride before The Ark went to the station to meet the 11:34. They did,
and after hurriedly finishing the contents of the pitcher and returning
the vanilla bottle to the kitchen cupboard in a somewhat surreptitious
manner, Spider and Jerry tumbled into the back of the car.
“Spider doesn’t believe that I ran this one day,” observed Jerry
presently as they rolled down the gentle slope of Walnut Street. “I
did, didn’t I, Tom?”
“You did,” responded Tom grimly. “And it’s a wonder you didn’t kill
yourself and smash the car up!”
Spider laughed tauntingly until Jerry pummeled him into silence.
“Anyway,” said the irrepressible Jerry, “you’ve got to own I did mighty
well considering I’d never driven before, Tom. I did do mighty well,
didn’t I, Will?”
“You did,” answered Willard gravely. “The way you just didn’t smash
into the back of that dray was a――a marvel of skill, Jerry. I hope you
can drive a horse as well as you can drive an automobile.”
Jerry grinned. “Sure I can. You see there isn’t so
much――what-you-call-it――mechanism to a horse, Will. If you want a horse
to stop you say ‘Whoa, you slab-sided, knock-kneed giraffe!’ and he
whoas.”
“He does?” asked Willard. “If I was a horse and you said that to me I’d
run away and break your silly neck! Is that the way you talk to Julius
Cæsar?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter what you say to him,” replied Jerry carelessly,
“because he doesn’t hear you. He’s sort of deaf, you know.”
“I hope he isn’t blind, too,” said Tom pessimistically as he guided The
Ark around the corner into Main Street.
“Not much,” answered Jerry cheerfully. “One eye’s pretty good yet.”
“He must be a peach!” said Spider witheringly. “How many legs has he
got left, Jerry?”
“Four or five; I forget which. Say, Tom, go through Spruce Street so
George Connors can see us, will you?”
“What for?”
“So that I can make a face at him,” responded Jerry promptly. “I told
him the other day I could ride in your car any time I wanted to, and he
said I couldn’t. I just want to show him I can.”