[Illustration: “I’m waving a flag of truce, Miss Ducharme. Can’t we
declare an armistice for ten minutes to bury our dead?”]
Sudden Jim
By Clarence Budington Kelland
Author of “The Hidden Spring,” Etc.
[Illustration]
WITH FRONTISPIECE
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers—New York
Published by Arrangement with Harper & Brothers
Sudden Jim
Copyright 1916. by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
Published February, 1917
SUDDEN JIM
CHAPTER I
It is not a fact that clothespins are threshed out like beans or wheat.
They are not a product of nature, but of art and machinery. A clear
understanding of this is necessary before the story can begin to march;
for if clothespins had grown in fields inclosed by rail fences, and were
gathered by the aid of a self-binder, there never would have been an
individual known from coast to coast as Clothespin Jimmy. This
individual would not have had a son named James, nor would Clothespin
Jimmy have started to build a new clothespin-mill in Diversity,
Michigan. So it is manifest that the fact stated in the first paragraph
hereof lies at the very tap-root of the whole matter.
If you studied sufficiently over the hieroglyphics appended by
Clothespin Jimmy at the end of a check you discovered them to indicate
the signature “James Ashe.” But it required more than a passing glance.
Nobody ever quarreled with the signature, because it suited the old man
and was honored by the bank.
The owner of the illegible signature was sixty-five years old, was hale,
hearty, and ripe for adventure. Also he figured that fifty years of hard
labor about completed his sentence and that he was entitled to play
about.
Therefore he called home his son James, who had shown an early and
marked distaste for the clothespin business, and took him into the
library, where there lived in ease and idleness some ninety feet of
assorted red, blue and black books. He opened the conversation:
“Son, what name do folks call you by when they speak to you?”
“Why—Jim, I guess.”
“Just Jim? Nothing describin’ it?”
“That’s all.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t the least notion, father. Why should they call me anything
else?”
“No reason in the world. That’s what I’m gettin’ at in my feeble way.
What do folks call me?”
“Clothespin Jimmy,” replied his son, promptly.
“Yes, and when I die that’s what’s goin’ onto the headstone. It means
somethin’. There hain’t no need for a verse of poetry and clasped hands.
‘Clothespin Jimmy’ tells the whole story. I don’t mind sayin’ I’m proud
of it. Just like I was proud of the first dollar I ever handled—because
I earned it. Folks call me Clothespin Jimmy because I’ve done things
with clothespins—things that amount to somethin’. Men don’t git names
like that by settin’ in one spot till their pants wear thin. Now, take
you—they call you Jim, and there the matter ends. That’s where you end.
You’re just Jim, like seven hundred thousand other Jims. You don’t stick
up above the herd. Hain’t it about time folks was findin’ reason to
hitch a descriptive name onto you?”
“I’m twenty-eight. I’ve got a good job. I’m supporting myself and not
taking a cent from you—”
“I’m not findin’ fault with what you’ve done, son. You ain’t a gilded
butterfly—that ain’t what I mean. You’re respectable and
self-supportin’, but so’s twenty million other boys in this country.
You’re just a good average human critter. But that’s not even comin’
close to the subject, which is that ma and me would like to go to
Californy.”
“Good idea, dad. When do you start?”
“As things is we don’t start at all.”
“Why?”
“Largely because you’re satisfied to have folks call you Jim without any
description to it.” The old gentleman took a package of folded papers
from a drawer and slid the rubber band off them.
“Here’s somethin’,” he said. “Bonds. Fifty of ’em for a thousand dollars
apiece. Net five per cent. I’ve milked the business to get ’em. ’Twasn’t
right by the business, but I done it just the same. Now, then, you never
liked the clothespin business. Don’t know why. So I’ve fixed it so you
could pick and choose between two things. I’ll come to that in a minute.
But first, about Californy. I started supportin’ myself when I was
fifteen, and I’ve been hard at it ever since—fifty years. The time’s
come for me to git out with your ma and have a good time if we’re ever
a-goin’ to. Short time for frolickin’ left at best. But it rests with
you. I figger I’ve earned the right to loaf, but I can’t loaf without
leavin’ somebody to labor. There hain’t nobody but you.” He stopped and
looked at Jim and slapped the package of bonds on the desk-top three or
four times.
“There ought to be somethin’ to you more ’n just Jim. I’ve waited to see
it crop out. Now I’m goin’ to dig for it. Here’s these bonds. Yonder in
Diversity is the new mill almost ready to start turnin’ over. It’ll be
worth a quarter of a million to somebody. I can make it so in a year.
What I got you in here for was to offer you your choice. You can take
the mill and the business and have it till God does you part—and buckle
in like I’ve done; or you can take this fifty thousand in bonds and go
play. If you take the mill, your ma and me take the bonds and go play.
There’s the proposition. Take which you like—and no hard feelin’s.”
“But, dad, suppose I don’t take either?”
The old man’s face changed; his eyes grew anxious; the hand that held
the bonds trembled ever so little.
“You wouldn’t do that to me, son. Ever since that night twenty-eight
years ago when I heard a miserable squawkin’ sound up-stairs and
mistrusted it was you, I’ve been workin’ and plannin’ and hopin’—with
you as the object of it all. I wanted to fix things for you, son—and
I’ve done it. You don’t need to take the business if you don’t want to.
Your ma and me can keep on like we’ve been goin’, and have consid’able
fun, too. But if you was to refuse both, then I’d feel as if I’d sort of
wasted my time—as if my workin’ and livin’ hadn’t been for no good at
all. You—you wouldn’t do that to your dad, would you, son?”
Young Jim walked to the window and stood looking out, and as he looked
out he reviewed his own plans and scheme of life, his hopes and private
aspirations. Presently he turned:
“No, dad, I won’t refuse both. I’ll take one or the other.”
Clothespin Jimmy’s face showed his relief.
“Much ’bliged, son,” he said, as though he were accepting a notable
favor instead of giving away what folks not addicted to polo or divorces
or Fifth Avenue or ocean-going yachts would consider a fortune.
Jim returned to his window; his father sat thumbing the bonds and
waiting. Presently the old man spoke suddenly:
“I don’t want you tradin’ unsight-unseen. You’re entitled to know what
you’re up against. In case you take the mill—I milked it for these
bonds. I told you that. The business will need this money and need it
bad. I’ve built big. The day the mill starts runnin’ you h’ist a debt of
seventy thousand dollars onto your shoulder. You’ll be pinched for
money, and you’ll have a devil of a time. But I could pull it
through—and so can you if you’re any good. You ain’t steppin’ into a
snap—not by several statute miles. Furthermore, if you take her you
take her for better or for worse. You git no help from me. These
bonds’ll be all I have, and I’ll need ’em. I won’t let loose of one of
’em to keep you out of bankruptcy. Understand?”
“Yes,” said Jim.
“Got your mind made up?”
“I’d rather sleep on it, dad. Suppose we put it off till to-morrow.”
“If you’re the man to handle the job you can decide now. Puttin’ off
never helped matters. A man that makes up his mind right off may be
wrong half the time, but he’s right a whole lot more than the fellow who
has to have a decision jerked out of him with an ox-team. If you expect
to get anywheres in this world, learn to make up your mind swift and
follow up with swift action. We’ll finish the deal now before
quittin’-time.”
Jim turned and looked at his father. Somehow he felt detached from
himself, as if he were sitting at a distance twiddling his thumbs and
watching his own wheels go round. He occupied the position of spectator
very briefly, however, but popped back inside of himself and took
possession again—with a noticeable change. He felt different. He did
not feel like Jim Ashe as he had been acquainted with Jim Ashe, but like
another individual of markedly different characteristics. This change
manifested itself in his reply:
“All right. We’ll decide now. Now!”
“Yes?” said Clothespin Jimmy, his fingers tightening ever so little.
“I take the mill,” said Jim.
“Huh!” his father said.
That was all. He slipped the bonds into his side pocket. From another
pocket he drew an envelope holding two long, many-times-folded strips of
blue paper. Jim recognized them as railroad tickets.
“You’d better go to Diversity on Friday. This is Tuesday. Your ma and me
leave for Californy on Friday mornin’.”
Jim eyed his father suspiciously. “Had the tickets all the time?”
“Yes.”
“You were going, anyhow?”
“No; not unless you took the mill.” The old man chuckled.
Jim snorted. “Pretty sure how I’d decide, weren’t you?”
“Well, seein’ as you’re my son—and your ma’s—I wasn’t more ’n a mite
worried. I figgered you was sound timber, but there was always the
chance that sap rot had got at you. That envelope there was the stock
certificates, all indorsed over to you, inside of it. Take ’em. You’re
the proprietor of the Ashe Clothespin Company now. I’m through with it.
Fifty years of work to earn a couple of years of play for ma and me.
When we’re gone write us often. We’ll need to hear from you. But don’t
you dast to mention clothespins to me—either good or bad about ’em. I’m
through. Through for good and all—and it’s up to you.”
“Done.” said young James.