STICK SELLS OUT
Stick Patterson was drawing meaningless lines and figures on a sheet of
paper when Russell opened the door, and he didn’t cease doing it nor
relapse from his preoccupied attitude until Russell had drawn his chair
nearer the end of the table, from where he could see his companion
without having to dodge the lamp, and seated himself. Then Stick looked
across gloomily.
“I want to talk about--about this,” announced Russell.
Stick returned his level gaze a moment and then tossed the pencil he
had held aside and thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat. “So
do I,” he replied with a tone of relief. “Look here, Rus, I’ve been
thinking about it, and I guess I’ve been wrong. I don’t believe it
would be fair to you to sell out to some other chap. You and he might
not get on together the way we do. I’ve decided to stick it out. Maybe
later you’ll have the money. Anyway, I’ll stay with you to the end of
the school year, or as long as we hold out. Even if we do bust, maybe
we’ll save something.”
“That’s fine, Stick,” replied Russell gratefully. “And it’s very decent
of you. You have a perfect right to sell, of course, but if you did it
would put me out of business, I guess.”
“I don’t see why, Rus. Anyway, I’m not going--”
“Because Mr. Crocker would see to it, Stick. You don’t really believe
that he has any idea of keeping both businesses going?”
“What’s Crocker got to do with it?” asked Stick.
“A whole lot if he owned your interest.”
“But he wouldn’t.” Stick looked genuinely puzzled. “This fellow
Throgmorton--”
“Stick,” interrupted Russell, “did Mr. Crocker stop in at the store a
week ago last Saturday?”
“What? Why, yes, he did. I didn’t say anything about it because--well,
he didn’t want me to, and--Oh, well, I know I ought to have told
you, but he said he thought he might find some one who would buy my
interest, and that you’d better not know about it until it was settled.
It was sort of low-down, Rus, and I’m sorry.”
“Crocker didn’t offer to buy himself, then?”
“Crocker? No, he said he wouldn’t take it at any price. Of course I
wouldn’t have sold to him, anyway.”
“Then you really thought that Throgmorton wanted your interest for
himself?”
Stick stared. “Of course! Didn’t he? Look here, you don’t mean--”
“He and Billy Crocker, Mr. Crocker’s son, are together a lot,”
answered Russell. “And Mr. Crocker would like to see our place closed
up. I can’t prove it, but--”
“You don’t need to!” cried Stick angrily. “Of course that was the game!
You wait until I see that smart Aleck! I’ll--I’ll tell him where he
gets off! I’ll kick him across the Green! I’ll--”
“I wouldn’t say anything about it,” said Russell soothingly. “He only
has to deny it. You can’t prove anything, Stick.”
“That’s all right! I don’t need to do any proving!” Stick, as has been
already intimated, greatly disliked having anything “put over on him.”
“The fat-head! I thought it was funny, his wanting to buy into the
business. Why--” Stick paused and dropped his voice several tones. “I
say, Rus, I didn’t suspect that for a minute. I wish you’d believe me.
I know it looks funny. But honest--”
“That’s all right,” replied Russell. “I believe you, Stick. I couldn’t
quite believe that you meant to do anything like that.”
“But wasn’t I the goop?” muttered Stick incredulously. “Never thought
that that old shifty-eyed rascal was trying to pull my leg! He was so
thunderingly nice and--and sympathetic! You wait till I see the old
fraud! You wait--”
“Never mind that,” laughed Russell. “After all, the laugh’s on your
side, Stick, for you’ve got them fooled. When you tell Throgmorton
you’ve changed your mind--hold on, though! How can you get out of it?
You gave him your promise, didn’t you?”
“I said he could have it if you didn’t take it by to-morrow,” answered
Stick, “but he didn’t tell me he was buying to sell again to Crocker!
He can chase himself now!”
“Still, a promise is a promise,” mused Russell.
“I’ll tell him you’ve bought it. No, I guess that wouldn’t do, either.”
Stick scowled perplexedly. “I’ll tell you--”
“It’s barely possible I may be able to get the money by twelve
to-morrow,” Russell cut in. He told about Jimmy’s plan and Stick
listened impatiently until the end. Then:
“Austen can’t have it,” he declared vehemently. “No one can have it!
I’m going to keep it myself, and we’re going to show that old pirate
of a Crocker that he can’t run us out of business! But I will do this,
Rus. I’ll take your note now for a hundred and twenty-five dollars and
you can have my interest until noon to-morrow. Then we trade back.
Here’s a piece of paper.”
“What shall I write?” asked Russell.
“‘One month after date I promise to pay to George Patterson One Hundred
and Twenty-five Dollars with interest at six per cent.’ Now date it and
sign your name.”
“But is it legal, Stick?”
“I guess so. It’s legal enough for me, anyway. I’ve sold out to you
and I can tell Throgmorton so without lying. That’s all I want.”
“I forgot to tell you,” said Russell as Stick folded the piece of paper
and thrust it into the drawer on his side of the table, “that there’s
a pretty fair chance of our selling to the football team next fall.”
He recounted Jimmy’s talk with Tod Tenney. “There’s nothing certain,”
he ended, “but I’m going to speak to Mr. Cade some day before he goes
away, and--”
“Of course we’ll get it!” put in Stick almost impatiently. “We’ll work
for it until we do! Rus, when we get through with old man Crocker he’ll
be selling hardware and nothing else, believe me!”
“All right,” laughed Russell. “Now do you want to go over to the
football mass meeting?”
The next morning appeared Jimmy with a tragic countenance. His father’s
secretary had wired him that Mr. Austen was in Boston and would not
be back until to-morrow. “He says,” wailed Jimmy, “that he will bring
the matter to father’s attention immediately on his return, the crazy
galoot, but what good will that do? It wouldn’t have hurt him to have
used his bean and sent the money!”
Russell soothed him with news of Stick’s new attitude, and Jimmy glowed
with delight. Then he chuckled. “I’d like to be there when Patterson
talks to Throgmorton,” he said wistfully.
“Well, there won’t be any bloodshed,” replied Russell. “Stick usually
calms down before the battle begins! And Throgmorton, you tell me, is
fairly sizable.”
Jimmy grinned. “That’s so. I guess Patterson is too wise to start
anything he can’t finish. Well, I’m awfully glad it’s turned out so
well. I’m sort of sorry, though, that I’m not to get a finger in the
pie after all. I believe you and I, Rus, could have made the Sign of
the Football pay real money.”
“Yes, Jimmy, I guess we could have, but it’s going to pay real money as
it is, I think, for Stick’s as stubborn as a mule, and now that he’s
decided to work instead of growl I believe we’ll make a success of it.”
“Hope so,” said Jimmy. “You’ve got my best wishes, old son, if they’ll
do you any good. By the way, I’m glad you kept me from making a useless
trip to New York last night. Wouldn’t I have been sore when I got to
the office this morning and found dad wasn’t there? Still, I’ll bet I’d
have dug that money out of some one before I left! Well, so long, Rus.
Come over to-night and tell me what happens.”
Not very much did happen. Stick kept his engagement with Throgmorton
at the latter’s room and found Billy Crocker with him. The money was
there, too, seven nice new twenties and a ten. There was, too, a very
official looking paper awaiting Stick’s signature, and Billy Crocker
explained his presence by stating that he was there as a witness. Stick
took the money and counted it slowly, prolonging the agony, as he put
it later to Russell. Then he laid it down and shook his head.
“Anything wrong with it?” demanded Billy.
“No, it looks all right,” replied Stick. “May be counterfeit, but I
can’t tell.”
“Not likely,” said Throgmorton, who was a large and rather
heavy-mannered youth of nineteen. “Put it in your pocket, Patterson,
and sign on the dotted line.”
Stick shook his head and smiled gently. “No, I just dropped around to
tell you that the deal is off.”
“Off!” shouted Billy Crocker. “What do you mean, off?”
“Why, just off; not on,” explained Stick patiently. “O, double-F, off.
Meaning nothing doing, Crocker.”
“Why?” asked Throgmorton darkly.
“Emerson bought,” replied Stick.
“That’s a lie,” cried Billy. “See here, you agreed to sell to us--”
“‘Us’?” Stick’s brows went up.
“To Throg, here,” corrected Billy. “Now you’re welching, and--”
“But, my dear fellow,” protested Stick, thoroughly enjoying the other’s
disappointment, “how can I sell what I haven’t got? Be reasonable.”
“Oh, shut up!” wailed Billy. “You make me sick!”
“Sorry. Don’t see what business it is of yours, though. If you must
witness something, Crocker, I’ll sign my name on my cuff for you. Well,
I must be getting on. By the way, you might try Emerson. Maybe he’ll
sell to you. Seems to me he ought to be glad to get into partnership
with a fine, straightforward man like your father!”
Stick left them staring at him, looking, as he said to Russell, like
two sick cat-fish! And that ended that affair for the time and Russell
heaved a big sigh of relief. Fortunately he didn’t know then that Billy
Crocker was quite as averse as was Stick Patterson to having anything
put over on him, and that, unlike Stick, he didn’t forgive readily.
Thursday saw the end of the season for the second team, as has been
told, and Thursday night witnessed the second team’s annual banquet
in Ford’s Restaurant, in the town. Twenty-two battle-scarred but very
contented youths ate their fill and sang and cheered and listened to
speeches, of which that delivered by Coach Steve Gaston, while the
briefest was the best. Steve told them a lot of nice things about their
playing and their devotion to the School, and he told them, and with
convincing emphasis, that what he had planned and hoped for had come
true, that he was standing at that moment in the presence of the finest
second team in the annals of Alton football! At which the roof of the
building must have raised an inch before the cheering ceased!
They sang their last song at a quarter past ten and tumbled noisily
and hilariously down the stairs to the street and out into the frosty
sharpness of a starlit night and swung unhurriedly back to the Academy,
very happy and very proud and, now that the excitement was over,
deliciously tired. Near the end of the walk Russell found himself
beside Steve Gaston. Steve had taken his season’s task seriously and,
in a way, he had taken the celebration seriously. But now he had
relapsed into a smiling and rather silent content, and it was not until
they were crossing the Green that he made any lengthy remark. Then:
“Emerson, you certainly worked hard for me--well, for us, for the
School. It’s hard to be impersonal always. And, for my part, I thank
you. I needed you like the very dickens when I dug you out that time,
and by making good the way you did you just about saved me. You’ve
got another year, haven’t you? I thought so. Well, let me tell you
something. You may know it already, but I don’t believe you do. Next
fall you walk out on the field and tell the coach that you’re going to
play right end. You’ll get it!”
Russell pondered that on his way upstairs. Of course Steve Gaston ought
to know, but it did seem to him that the coach had let his judgment
slip for once! Further cogitation on the subject was denied him just
then, for as soon as he had stepped into Number 27 he knew that
something startling had happened. Stick’s face was enough. Stick had
thrown the door open at the sound of Russell’s steps in the corridor
and now he was asking excitedly:
“Have you heard about it, Rus?”
“No! What?”
“Some one broke into the store to-night and beat up Mr. Pulsifer! They
got him, too. That is, one of him; there were two. I’ve just come back
from there. The police won’t tell who the fellow is, but every one says
it’s Billy Crocker!”