and when I had pulled things around so that I could breathe again, she
suggested a vacation. I agreed having in my mind a nice, quiet, little
village on the Maine coast, where I could lie around in the sun and
dose, or go fishing when I felt real rambunctious. Now your Ma, had
just been reading a book called, "The Invigoration of the Human Mind
and Body," by some fellow with a string of letters after his name.
Professor Wiseacre claimed that to get a thorough rest a person should
spend his vacations in doing exactly the opposite from what he did the
rest of the year, and as much as I should like to I can't quarrel with
him about that, but what I am ready to go to the mat with him for, was
his elaboration of this theory into the fact that if a person kept away
from society most of the year, his vacation should be spent in the
midst of its giddy whirl.
Your Ma was thoroughly sold on this idea, although I calculate she
didn't have to be persuaded much harder than a shoe jobber does to take
a thousand cases at present prices, when he thinks the market is going
up.
I fell for it. Your Ma ordered a lot of sixty horse power clothes,
and we rented a big cottage at Magnolia. Now I knew Magnolia was
fashionable; but it's on the coast so I thought that once in a while I
could slip away in a dory for a few hours' fishing off Norman's Woe,
or get over to Gloucester for a chin with some of the captains of the
fleet; but I soon found out that I had about as much chance of doing
either as a rabbit has of dying of old age in the snake cage at the zoo.
The first morning, I came down in an old suit and flannel shirt, with a
cod line in my pocket, carrying a can full of clams for bait. When your
Ma saw me she waved me back like a traffic cop, and asked in a hurt
tone if I had forgotten we were going to take our meals at the hotel. I
had. I never did again. I changed into white flannels and stood around
on the hotel piazza after breakfast saying, "Fine morning, Glad to meet
you," while your Ma renewed her acquaintance with a number of ladies.
About eleven, I tried to make a break, but learned I was to escort to
the beach a crowd of females aged fifteen to seventy-five.
I sat on the beach for an hour getting my shoes full of sand, and then
it was time to convey the crowd back to the hotel for lunch. Next, we
went for an auto ride, stopping at the Grill for tea, after which it
was time to dress for dinner, and then I had to stick around at a dance
until after midnight.
I kept this up for two weeks, and the only time I escaped was one rainy
day when I managed to dodge the hotel debating society, and get in a
morning's fishing before it cleared up.
In two weeks, I was so fed up with changing my clothes, and going to
the beach, and having tea, and hanging around dances, I just longed for
the peaceful clatter of the making room, and would have done something
desperate, if I hadn't met a young doctor who was making a great
reputation advising people to do just what they wanted.
He told me I needed a complete change. I didn't put up any argument
against that, and I sort of hinted the factory would be the most
complete change I could think of; so he ordered me back to work and
charged me a tremendous fee, but it was worth it, for in two weeks
after I had returned, I felt rested.
Now I had rather hoped you and I would get a chance to pal around
together this summer, for you will be away from home quite a lot
during the next few years, and I want to be a real chum to you, Ted.
I never had any use for the father and son business where the old man
says, "Why, good morning Reginald," in a sort of a surprised tone as
though he suddenly remembers he has a son after all. I want to be a
real friend of yours, in on your good times, and ready to lend a hand
whenever it's needed. In a few years I want to change the firm name
from William Soule & Company to William Soule & Son, and I want it
to be more than a change in the firm's name. I want it to be a real
partnership.
We'll be glad to have you home again Ted, even if it's only between
trips, for you've been missed this year, my boy. Your Ma and I aren't
as young as we were, and there's been many an evening when I've been
reading the paper, and she's been sewing, and neither of our minds on
what we were doing, for we were thinking of a hulking kid of ours. Some
years from now when you have a boy of your own you'll understand.
That's why, I guess, I hoped you'd be at home a lot this summer, and
that later you and I could take a fishing trip together, but I promised
you you could do anything within reason this vacation and my word has
never been broken. We'll expect you Thursday.
Your affectionate father,
WILLIAM SOULE.
P. S. Bully for you, Ted. Your letter saying you are going to chuck all
the fancy stuff and stay home this summer just came. You couldn't have
pleased us more, and I've cabled old Indian Joe to save us two weeks in
August. You and I are going to Newfoundland after salmon. Will we have
a good time? I'll say so!
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Numerous errors have been corrected and inconsistencies in spelling have
been resolved; otherwise the author's original spelling, punctuation and
hyphenation have been left intact.