TOMMY-LAD
Just as any boy _or_ girl, or any boy _and_ girl, could deceive a mother
about a thing like that! Tom Whitely was painted up like an Indian
before he even had his supper, and not satisfied with the iodine and
arnica in the house, Mrs. Whitely had asked Pete Duncan to get more from
the drug store when he went in to the post-office for the evening mail.
“Tommy-lad, you’re too reckless altogether,” she scolded affectionately.
The bandage on the bruised arm was patted gently but fondly, and then
the sleeve was slipped over it without so much as brushing the lint.
“’Tisn’t anything, mother,” protested the boy repeatedly.
“Too reckless and anxious for the dollar. Why, son, you don’t have to do
all the supporting, you know. Mother is able and quite popular yet with
them who didn’t have the chance she had to learn how to sew.” Mrs.
Whitely was shaking her brown head with a show of pardonable pride, and
anyone could have seen by the shadows that made her blue eyes look gray,
just whom Tommy looked like.
“That’s all right, ma, but Summer’s the time, you know,” argued the boy.
There was a favorite supper simmering on the stove, its appetizing odor
provoking Tommy to impatience.
“And old Sam Powers was here a while ago. Didn’t say what he wanted, but
from the way he worked his handsome face,” she chuckled, “it must have
been something mighty important.”
“I’ll have to go up—”
“Now, we’ll just see about that, Tommy-lad,” interrupted the
well-meaning little mother. How could she know Tommy was anxious to go
out and see about that bicycle chain? She couldn’t and he didn’t want
her to.
“But there might be a special letter for me to deliver,” argued Tom,
slyly.
“There’s more boys than one in Barbend, and besides, you haven’t your
wheel.”
“My basket was so full of the lilies—”
“Yes, I know, and it shakes them to a frazzle, the little beauties.” She
glanced at the tub which made a nest for the lilies. The fragrant blooms
now closing their waxy petals looked so cool, comfortable and happy
there, it was easy to see that no root had been cruelly dislodged in
their gathering, and to understand that a pond lily can make a home
anywhere in water.
As always happens when one tries to tell part of the truth, Tom’s story
to his mother, that the slight injuries and serious number of scratches
had resulted from a toss into a clump of briar bushes, wove a web of
complications which only entangled him more as he tried to escape from
it. Sam Powers, the man who ran the general store and helped out
Postmaster Johnston by supplying the special delivery boy, would not
have called at the Whitely home for anything trifling. Even Tom’s mother
suspected trouble and perhaps that was one reason why she tried to keep
her son home just now. He was young, and to her, very tender; the only
child she had, and he constituted her entire family and likewise the
object of her entire heroic devotion. As Tom had told Gloria “she fussed
a lot”—but even fussing did not always keep Tommy-lad at the end of her
neat apron strings. So, with supper over, the table cleared and his
mother installed on the side porch where no vines obscured the late
twilight as she read the weekly paper, Tom was slipping off, slowly but
surely village-ward.
At the creek he met Sidney Brown, a boy who “dressed up” and wore a hat
week days.
“Hey, Tom! Sam’s looking for you,” called out Sidney.
“I’m going there,” answered Tom sharply, his wonder increasing. Why had
Sam scattered the news? Couldn’t he wait until Tom had his supper down?
Up at the village, the little triangle composed of a group of stores and
including the post-office, Tom found things still closed up for supper.
Sam Powers’ store was locked, just a little girl was “minding” the
grocery store next door, but there was no sign of life around the
post-office. Only the bicycle repair shop showed any activity, and that
consisted in Abe Nash, the proprietor, spilling some rubbish into a
broken soap box at the side door.
Tom hurried over. “Hello, Abner!” he called. “Got that bike fixed yet?”
The man in the oily duster looked over his specks. Then he kicked the
splintered side of the unfortunate soap box. “Fixed!” he repeated,
sending the word out with a hiss from the corner of his mouth. “What do
you think this is?”
“Oh, I was down to Sam’s and I thought I’d just ask,” put in Tom humbly.
“Did-ju see Sam?”
“No. He’s not around.”
“Well, y’u better wait. He’s a-huntin’ fer y’u.”
“What for? What does he want?” demanded Tom.
Abner Nash stuck his hands deep into the duster pockets. “Somethin’
lost, I guess,” he muttered.
“Oh,” said Tom. He was holding the two green bills Gloria had given him,
very tightly in his hand and his hand was in his pocket.
“When do y’u want the wheel?” asked Abner.
“Quick as I can get it.”
“How y’u goin’ to pay for it? Three dollars for that new chain.”
“Oh, I’ve got the money right now,” said Tom, innocently producing the
bills.
“You have, eh! Humph! Well, you’re pretty smart. Sell all them lilies
since you picked them?” Tom’s shadowy eyes glared. He saw now what Abe
Nash meant.
“No, I didn’t,” he retorted. “But I’ve got the money to pay for that
wheel when it’s ready.”
“So I see.” The man turned toward the patched netting door. “Well, it’ll
be ready by tomorrow noon.”
Tom looked attentively at the money that he had smoothed out on his
hand. Then glancing up, he felt a breath almost over his shoulder.
It was Sam Powers!
“Where’d you get that money?” The man’s voice was full of threats.
“Where did I get it?” gasped Tom. “What’s that to you?”
A big hand was settling heavily upon his shoulder.
Indignantly he drew back and confronted the man who was attempting to
seize him. Tom wanted to “haul off” but instinctively he dropped his
hands and relieved his emotion with full, long, audible breaths.
For a few moments neither spoke. Powers was not usually a bully, and
even now something like a smile played around his square mouth.
“Come over here and talk it over, Tommy,” he said. “No need to get
excited.”
Boyish indignation choked Tom’s reply. Why do grown folks always accuse
children first and investigate later?
Tom finally spoke: “What’s all this about, anyway?”
“It’s about Mrs. Trivett’s money.”
“I don’t know anything about her money.”
“Now wait a minute, Tommy. Wait a minute.” Each word was separated with
a provoking sing-song drawl. It mocked every instinct of justice surging
over the boy. “You see—well, you know what old Nancy Trivett is—”
“Sure I do,” retorted Tom.
“Now, don’t get excited, son.” He had unlocked the store door and Tom,
helpless to do otherwise, followed him inside. “She came in here this
mornin’ jest after we packed the first orders. Yes, it was jest after
that because—”
“Say, Sam,” interrupted Tom. “I’ve got to get back home. Can’t you hurry
some?”
“I could, but I was jest tryin’ to be polite—”
“Don’t bother to be,” growled Tom.
“All right, son,” Sam continued. “We’ll jest cut out the po-lightness
and get down to hard tacks. Where’d y’u get that money?”
“Well, I didn’t get it around here—”
“Now, I’m not accusin’ you, Tom.” Again the square smile. “But you see,
this ain’t pay day and three dollars—”
“Can’t anybody in Barbend have three dollars ’cept old Nancy Trivett!”
“Not at the same identical time—’cordin’ to Nancy.” The chuckle that
followed this was drowned in a noisy shuffle of Tom’s impatient feet.
“I tell you, Sam, I don’t know anything about Trivett’s money. This is
mine.”
“But where’d y’u get it?”
“I got it to pay for my bike—it’s broken.”
“Oh, I know it’s broken. Good thing your neck ain’t broke with it. Nancy
saw you roll under the car wheels—”
“Is that what gave her a fit? Thought she saw me go under the wheels?”
“No, Tom. No, Tom—son—” a kindness crept into old Sam’s voice, “even her
best friend would not be good-natured enough to say she thought she saw
you. The fact is—well, you know Nancy.”
It was growing dark. Tom would have hurried off and left Sam to his
drawl but he knew better. That would simply have been to invite Sam to
go up to Tom’s mother with the same drawl and more mischievous
insinuations. So, he said:
“I can’t just tell you exactly where I got this money, Sam, but did you
ever find me short a cent?”
“Not a red.”
“Then why do you suspect me?”
“I don’t.”
“All right. That settles it. I’ve got to get home.”
“But you know old Abe Nash. He said you was goin’ to get your wheel
fixed and he said, right to Nancy, that you didn’t have any money to pay
for it. And now you go and show him a roll.”
“How’d she lose her old money?”
“Says she left it on the basket of tomatoes. You took them over.”
“Yes, and there was no more money on them than there was diamonds.” Tom
could be sarcastic. He kicked a peach basket viciously.
“Now I’ll tell you, son. Your best game is to give that money back to
your maw—”
“I didn’t get it from mother.”
“You didn’t?” there was just a hint of suspicion in Sam’s voice now.
“No.”
“Weil, if you borrowed it from anyone else—give it back.”
“All right, Sam, guess I will.”
“And let the old Skin-flint Abe wait for his money.”
“Ye-ah.”
“But how about the orders?”
“That’s it. I need the darn wheel.”
Both stopped and fell into deep consideration. It all seemed so simple a
matter, but to country folks these simple things are momentous.
“If you was to tell me who you got that from, I might see my way clear
to advance you the money on next week’s pay,” suggested Sam, with marked
caution.
“I can’t tell you, Sam. I promised not to.” Tom’s blue eyes now went
gray as his mother’s. He declined Sam’s confidence reluctantly.
“Well, that’s the best I can do,” said Sam. “But take my advice and put
a crick in old Abe Nash’s sour tongue before he meets up with Nancy.”
“All right,” said Tom. And on the way home he wondered how he would
manage to put that crick in, wisely and effectively.