CROSSED WIRES
“Why, hello, Pep!” exclaimed Frank in joyful surprise, jumping up from
the table and greeting the missing chum with a hearty handshake.
“Hold on--go a little easy on that hand,” spoke the unexpected guest.
“It’s the one I hurt in that automobile accident, you know, and not
quite as strong as it used to be.”
“What automobile accident?” inquired Frank in surprise.
“Oh, that’s so,” broke in Randy quickly--“Frank has just got back from
the city and hasn’t heard of it yet. We didn’t expect you so soon. You
wrote us yesterday you wouldn’t leave Brenton until Saturday.”
“Humph! Had to,” said Pep with a wry grimace.
“How is that?”
“Fired,” explained Pep tersely, and looking as if he had not enjoyed
the experience one bit. “Say, don’t bother me now about it. I’m hungry
as a bear, and had to walk eight miles to get here before dark, and
I’ll feel better natured when I’ve had something to eat and a little
rest.”
Ben Jolly arched his eyebrows in an inquiring way and Randy looked Pep
over sharply. Jolly had just returned from Fairlands that morning,
and Randy had heard from Pep by mail only twice during his sojourn at
the Tyson home at Brenton. From all he had learned and seen during
his brief visit there, Randy had been led to believe that Pep would
return with waving colors. He would not only be mended up, as Randy
had reason to figure it out, but would have a comfortable sum of money
representing lost time.
Pep, however, did not look like a favorite of fortune. He used both
hands with equal celerity in dispatching the meal, and his injured
wrist seemed to give him no inconvenience or pain. His face was glum,
however, and when he spoke of being “fired” Randy knew that something
was up.
“Tell us about this accident of yours, Pep,” urged Frank as all hands
got over the first promptings of appetite.
“Randy will,” snapped Pep.
Randy was agreeable to the suggestion. He was glad to descant on the
heroism of his chum, and dwelt somewhat upon the bravery of Pep in
risking his life for the little child in the baby carriage. Randy led
the course of the narrative to his visit to Brenton, the peculiar
situation in which he found Pep, and detailed the contents of the two
letters he had received from their absent partner.
“Well, Pep,” hailed Frank heartily, at the end of the story. “I suppose
you’ve turned out an adopted son or great favorite with this Mr. Tyson.”
Pep had just finished a second helping of Jolly’s famous rice pudding
and was ready to talk now.
“Oh, yes, I have! See me!” he retorted in a scornful and disgusted way.
“Say, the next fellow who plays me for an invalid will be a good one,
I tell you. It’s all right up to where Randy left me in the arms of
luxury at the Tyson residence. Yes, it was all right for two days after
that. Then I got into my usual trim--restless. Of course I couldn’t
work with my bad arm, but it didn’t bother me a bit. I told Mr. Tyson
so. He spoke to that old fogy surgeon of his and after a regular battle
we came to terms.”
“What terms, Pep?” inquired Frank.
“I wanted something to do. I was dead sick of hanging around doing
nothing. It seems that Mr. Tyson runs a broker’s office in Brenton.
It’s a branch of a big Wall Street concern in New York City. They do
some business, too, and he hires a lot of clerks. Well, the surgeon
said that as long as I didn’t use my bad arm it was all right, so
old Tyson takes me down to the office. First day he put me at the
information desk. Then the boy who held that position regularly came
back and he set me at one of the telephones.”
“What doing, Pep?” inquired Jolly.
“Taking quotations and orders on the long distance. The ’phone was
arranged on a standard and I didn’t have to handle it at all. I had
a pad of paper at my side. All I had to do was to write out the
quotations, or orders. Then I would touch an electric bell and a boy
would take them to the manager.”
“Sort of stock exchange business; eh?” propounded Jolly.
“Yes, that way,” assented Pep. “The first day I got through grandly.
Old Tyson told me I had the making of a smart man in me and advised me
to cut away from the movies and become a second Vanderbilt. They kept
me at the ’phone yesterday, too. It’s too bad they did,” added Pep
grievously. “I reckon they think so now.”
“Explain, Pep,” urged the curious Randy.
“Well, about two o’clock in the afternoon there was a rush of
business. Everybody in the office was busy. I heard the manager say
that it looked like a regular Black Friday, whatever that was, the way
stocks and bonds were being juggled. Right when everything was going at
lightning speed and the office was in a turmoil, long distance says:
‘Buy for Vandamann account at twenty’--and then there was a hiss and a
jangle--crossed wires--see?”
Pep’s engrossed auditors nodded silently, eager to hear the remainder
of his story.
“Then I got the balance of the order--as I supposed--‘one thousand
shares Keystone Central.’ Orders came piling up and I had all I could
do to write them down. ‘Buy one thousand Keystone Central at twenty’
went to the manager with the rest. I thought no more of it until this
morning. I was at my ’phone thinking of how I’d be home with the rest
of you Saturday, when the manager, mad as a hornet, came to me. ‘You
see Mr. Tyson just as quick as you can,’ he snapped at me, and I did.
Mr. Tyson had just found out that I had mixed orders. I talked about
crossed wire, but he wouldn’t hear a word of it. ‘The idea of loading
us down with that bustling stock at twenty, when it was offered on the
exchange at three cents yesterday!’ he howled. ‘Here get out of here
and stay out of here. And here, you’ve cost a pretty penny, and you
can take that stock for your pay.’ And with that,” concluded Pep, “he
hurled this package at me, and I’m a bloated bondholder.”
Pep drew a little package of green and yellow documents from his
pocket. He flung them on the table in a disgruntled way. Ben Jolly
picked them up and looked them over.
“Heard of the Keystone Central,” he observed--“lot of watered stock
and new people trying to squeeze out the old shareholders. Maybe a few
dollars in these, Pep.”
But the disgusted Pep waved documents and remark away with disdain.
“Burn ’em up; throw ’em away--don’t care what you do with them,” he
declared. “I am sick of the whole business. I want to forget how mean
money makes a millionaire, and just get back into the gladness and
bustle of the old motion picture proposition.”
“All right, Pep,” said Jolly blandly, pocketing the papers. “I’ll just
take care of the document for you. They may bob up in a new way some
time; you never can tell.”
“What about moving the outfit down from Fairlands, Mr. Jolly?” here
interrupted Frank.
“That’s so--my report is due; isn’t it? Why, I’ve arranged for
everything. Boxed up and crated what there was in good shape, and
expect they’ll arrive to-morrow or the next day.”
“By rail, of course?”
“Oh, yes. It’s a long distance, there’s a lot of bad roads and hills to
climb, and freight was the only way. I left the chairs. It would cost
as much to move them as they were worth.”
“We had better stock up new as to the seating feature,” said Frank,
“seeing that we need double what we had at Fairlands. Well, boys, now
to show you what I have accomplished.”
Frank had done so much that he held their fascinated attention unbroken
for well nigh an hour. Jolly smiled and nodded his approval as Frank
told in detail of his negotiations with the supply houses in the city.
Pep’s eyes snapped with anticipation of the brilliant way in which the
new Wonderland was going to open.
“It looks all smooth sailing; doesn’t it now?” Randy submitted in his
optimistic way.
“How soon will we open?” pressed the eager Pep.
“I should think we would be all ready within a week or ten days.”
“Oh, pshaw! have to wait that long?” mourned Pep.
“You want things right; don’t you?” asked Randy.
“Oh, of course, of course,” responded Pep, “only every day counts.
Before we know it someone else will break in and get all the cream off
the proposition.”
“No, no, friend Pep,” laughed Ben Jolly confidently. “We’ve got too
good a start in the movies race at Seaside Park, and we’re bound to
win.”