GETTING EVEN
Little time was lost starting back for Cresville. The boys hoped to be
at home that night, and planned to at once start at work remodelling
their airship.
“And then we’ll go to Danforth,” decided Jerry.
“Maybe we won’t be in time,” objected Ned. “I don’t want to miss Mr.
Jackson again, if I can help it.”
“Oh, that balloon and aeroplane meet will last for some time,”
explained the tall lad. “Mr. Jackson is sure to be around there. We’ll
land him this time. It won’t take long to fix up the _Comet_, if we all
get to work on it.”
“It will seem good again to go scooting through the air,” observed Bob.
“Yes; no danger of killing diseased calves up above the clouds,” agreed
Jerry, with a laugh.
“I wonder if we’ll see anything of Mr. Sackett on our way back?” said
Ned.
“Hope not,” was Bob’s comment, “though we will pass through Tewkesbury
Township. I’ve seen all I want to of that swindler.”
They stopped for dinner that day in the same hotel where the deputy
cattle inspector had told them of the trick Mr. Sackett had worked on
them, and, among the guests at the dinner table was the same deputy
himself.
“There’s Mr. Rider,” announced Jerry in a low tone to his two chums, as
the waitress helped them to some fried chicken. The inspector caught
his name, looked up, and saw the boys.
“Well, if there ain’t the young fellows who go around buying condemned
calves!” he exclaimed, getting up from the table to shake hands with
them and the professor. “I’m real glad to see you again,” announced Mr.
Rider, and he changed his plate over to their table, where he talked
interestingly on many subjects.
“Have you seen anything of Mr. Sackett lately?” asked Jerry with a
smile, as they finished dinner and sat in the hotel parlor for a rest
before starting on again.
“No, but I expect to soon. I’ve got to go out that way. The county
board of health has another case against him, and I expect to be sent
on it within a day or two.”
“What’s it about--some more condemned calves?” asked Ned.
“No, it’s chickens this time. He’s got a big flock of what he claims
are pure-blooded buff Cochins, but they’re not. They’re a hybrid
strain, and what’s more they have an incurable disease. The trouble
with Sackett is that he doesn’t feed his stock right, nor take any care
of it. That’s why it’s nearly all diseased.
“These chickens are particularly bad. They’re nice-looking fowls, but
as soon as they get to a certain age they die off. There are a lot of
chicken-raisers around Sackett’s place, and they’re afraid their flocks
will catch the ailment. So I’ve been ordered to tell him to get rid of
all his fowls, disinfect his coops, and start all over. I know he’ll
kick like a steer, he’s so miserly, but he’ll have to do it.”
“Has he got many chickens?” asked Bob.
“About two hundred, and he values them pretty highly, but they’re not
worth a dollar. If any one bought them they’d be stuck, for the fowls
would die inside of a month.”
The deputy inspector told the boys several stories about Mr. Sackett,
and also regaled them with the news of the vicinity. Then, as they did
not want to spend another night away from home, they said good-by and
departed.
Jerry was driving the car, and they were going along at a good clip,
when there came a sudden snap, and something seemed to be wrong. The
tall lad brought the machine up with a jerk, jumped out, and made a
hasty examination.
“One of the small springs broken!” he announced ruefully.
“Can’t it be fixed? Will we have to get out and walk?” asked Ned.
“It could be repaired if we were near a blacksmith shop,” answered
Jerry. “It isn’t a bad break, and I can still go on, but not very fast,
and it may get worse, if it isn’t repaired.”
“I don’t see any blacksmith shop around here,” observed Bob. “In fact,
it wasn’t far from here that we killed the calf, fellows.”
“Don’t mention it!” begged Jerry. “Well, I guess I’ll take a chance,
and go on slowly. We may come to a garage within a few miles, though I
don’t remember seeing any on our other trip.”
As they were about to proceed, they saw a farmer driving toward
them. He halted to learn the trouble, and to the delight of the boys
announced that there was a smithy about a mile farther on, down a side
road.
The blacksmith shop was soon reached, and while the proprietor was
making the necessary repairs Jerry and his chums sat outside where a
number of men were gathered, listening to their talk. Mr. Snodgrass, as
has probably been guessed, was looking for bugs.
Quite a political discussion was under way among the loungers about
the smithy, when Ned, looking down the village street, saw a figure
approaching. There was something vaguely familiar about it. The
merchant’s son nudged Jerry.
“Isn’t that our friend Mr. Sackett, of Tewkesbury Township?” he asked
in a low voice.
“It sure is,” agreed the tall lad after a moment’s inspection.
“He’s coming here.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Shall we tackle him about that calf?”
“By jinks! I’ve a good notion to. Wait until he gets here, and we’ll
see if he knows us.”
Mr. Sackett came on with a shuffling gait. He did not seem to observe
the three boys, and they were thinking in what manner they could get
even with the miser for the mean trick he had played on them, when the
grizzled old farmer, addressing one of the men outside the blacksmith
shop, said:
“Well, Jason Stearn, have ye made up yer mind t’ take my flock of buff
Cochins? I’ve got t’ know right away, fer I’ve got another offer fer
’em, an’ I can’t wait on ye any longer. There’s two hundred of th’
finest hens in Tewkesbury Township, an’ I’m lettin’ ye have ’em at a
bargain.”
Jerry and his chums were all attention at this, and as the miserly
farmer had not yet noticed them, Jerry pulled Ned and Bob out of sight
behind a wagon, slipping along with them himself. From this vantage
point they listened.
“Do ye want ’em, Jason?” went on Mr. Sackett.
“Wa’al, I’ve been thinkin’ of it, Eb,” drawled the man addressed. “I
want t’ git some nice hens, an’ I like th’ Cochins as well as any.
What’s yer lowest figger?”
“One hundred an’ fifty dollars, jest as I told ye afore. They’re
wuth two hundred ef they’re wuth a cent--an’ that’s only a dollar
apiece--cheap fer buff Cochins. Ye’ll have t’ speak mighty soon, ef ye
want ’em. I come down this way special t’ see ye.”
“I’ll give ye a hundred an’ forty, Eb.”
“All right, I’ll take ye!” exclaimed the miserly farmer quickly. “Cash
down, mind ye.”
“Yes, I’m willin’ t’ pay cash,” agreed Mr. Stearn.
“An’ ye’ll have t’ pay suthin’ now, t’ bind the bargain,” went on Mr.
Sackett eagerly. “Newt Porter an’ Si Granberry will be witnesses that
ye agreed t’ take ’em.”
“All right, Eb. Here’s ten dollars. I’ll pay ye th’ rest when I come
fer th’ fowls.”
Mr. Stearn was about to pass over a ten-dollar bill to Mr. Sackett when
Jerry, with a nudge to his companions, stepped from behind the wagon,
and confronted the miser.
“Hold on a minute, Mr. Stearn,” said the tall lad calmly. “I wouldn’t
buy those chickens, if I were you.”
“Not buy those chickens? Why not?” asked the prospective purchaser.
“They’re a good flock, ain’t they?”
“No, they’re not,” put in Ned.
“They’re diseased and will die inside of a month,” added Bob.
“Say, consarn ye! Who be you fellers, anyhow, puttin’ in yer oars where
ye ain’t wanted, an’ tryin’ t’ spoil a man’s trade?” demanded Mr.
Sackett with a snarl.
“Oh, I guess you know who we are well enough,” spoke Jerry calmly, as
he stepped into plainer view. “We bought a calf of you at rather a high
price the other day, Mr. Sackett, and afterward learned that you were
ordered to kill it!”
“Oh, them’s th’ fellers, eh?” remarked Mr. Stearn, while as for the
miserly farmer, he started back in alarm at the sight of our heroes.
“What’s that calf got t’ do with my chickens?” he demanded roughly.
“A great deal,” went on Jerry still calmly. “Those fowls are diseased,
just as the calf was, and you know that your chickens have been
condemned, Mr. Sackett. You’ve been ordered by the health department to
get rid of them, and this is the means you take--trying to sell them to
some one who will lose them all within a month.
“Don’t buy those chickens, Mr. Stearn,” went on Jerry eagerly. “We
met Mr. Rider, the health inspector, a little while ago, and he told
us the whole story. It was he who told us about the condemned calf we
accidentally killed. Mr. Rider will be here in a few days to see that
the flock of Cochins are disposed of, and if you don’t want to throw
your money away, don’t buy them!”
“That’s not so!” cried Mr. Sackett. “You’re tryin’ t’ make trouble fer
me!”
“It _is_ true,” declared Jerry quietly. “My two friends here heard the
story, and so did Professor Snodgrass. I’ll call the professor,” which
he did, from down the road where the scientist was looking for strange
insects.
“It is perfectly true,” declared Mr. Snodgrass, “and I’m glad we are in
time to prevent you from cheating some one else, Mr. Sackett. If you
sell those diseased chickens it will be a swindle.”
“Wa’al, they ain’t all sick,” asserted the farmer lamely, “an’ I’m
willin’ t’ make a reduction, ef you’ll take ’em, Jason. I tell ye
they’re fine fowl!”
This was practically an admission that the story of our heroes was
true, and Mr. Stearn felt it to be so. He put his money back into his
pocket.
“I guess we can’t do no business, Eb,” he remarked dryly. “I’m much
obliged to you young fellers fer warnin’ me in time. I’d a-been badly
stuck, with a lot of diseased hens on my hands. What do you mean by
tryin’ such a trick, Eb Sackett?”
“Wa’al, I didn’t know th’ hens was as bad as that,” was the evasive
answer. “I ain’t had no official notice t’ that effect.”
“You knew it well enough, though,” declared Jerry decisively.
“Wa’al, consarn ye, what right have ye got t’ be mindin’ my business
an’ that of Jason Stearn fer, I’d like to know?” demanded the angry
miser, seeing his plans foiled.
“We’ve got every honest right,” answered Ned.
“Besides, you made us pay for a calf that was no good,” put in Bob.
“Oh! I wish I had holt of ye out at my place fer about five minutes!”
muttered the angry man, as he shook his fist at the boys, and turned
away, followed by the laughter of the loungers, who were glad to
see this turn to events. “I’d make ye smart fer this,” declared Mr.
Sackett, as he went back the way he had come. “Spoilin’ a man’s
business this way. Them chickens is good enough fer anybody!”
“Then you keep ’em,” answered Mr. Stearn, as he again thanked the boys
for the service they had done him.
“I rather guess this makes us about even on the calf deal,” observed
Jerry grimly.
Later they learned that Mr. Sackett tried elsewhere, but unsuccessfully,
to dispose of his fowls, and finally they all died on his hands, after
he had spent considerable for medicine to cure them.