Quinby and Son/Chapter 6
HEALTHY youth, as a rule, does not carry much of its worries to bed. Bert slept as soundly that night as though an El Dorado, a magic carpet of business adventure, a golden key to fortune, did not wait upon Sam's decision. But in the morning he was keenly awake to hope and to fear the moment his eyes opened. He reviewed words, phrases, sentences of the night before, and his heart sank. He had merely dreamed a dream. Why should the brilliant Sam seek the partnership of a boy whose business experience had been confined to carrying orders through the town?
He waited all day for news of the decision, and no word came. At the supper table he asked his father, trying to speak casually:
"Did Sam say anything about wanting to see me?"
"I doubt if Sam gave you a thought," Mr. Quinby answered. "We were hard at it rearranging some of the stock. He's strictly business when there's business to be done. He sticks right to it."
Bert wondered what his father would say if he knew that Sam was spreading his wings and preparing to fly.
Another day and no word of the verdict. That night Bert, unable to restrain longer his impatience, went down to Washington Avenue and waited until the lights went out and Sam and his father came away, separating outside the store. Watching Sam's approach, he suddenly thought it might be better to meet the clerk as though the encounter were by chance. Whistling, he sauntered up the avenue, his gaze turned toward the shop windows as though their varied displays were new and captivating to his eyes.
"Hello, there," said Sam.
The start of surprise he gave was well-acted. "Hello, Sam. What are you doing here? I thought the store had closed long ago."
"We've been dressing up stock. It takes time. A business that never spruces up is like a man who always wears the same suit. I thought you'd be around to see me."
"Oh," Bert said carelessly, "I wanted to give you a couple of more days to think it over."
"I've come to a decision," said Sam.
Bert waited; but the clerk, his brows knit, seemed lost in a last aspect of the enterprise. And at that all Bert's assumed ease fled and left him with only a stricken thought that the judgment had gone against him.
"You're going to let me in, aren't you?" he asked in alarm.
"That depends," Sam said. "A business man must weigh everything, and view it from every angle. Never leap overboard; business waters run deep. If you want to put in nothing but money I'm afraid it's no go."
"What else do you want?"
"You—your time—your energy. How did Carnegie build up his fortune in steel? He surrounded himself with eager, ambitious men. When school is out in the afternoon will you come into the store and hustle to make it prosperous? Yes or no?"
"Yes."
"Then you're in," Sam said with satisfaction. "The Shoppers' Service has been born. Let's go into the ice cream store and draw up an agreement. I've been looking up those things; I know how to draw one. I'm not treating. We'll each pay for our own. I've got to hold on to my capital."
They went to a table in the rear of the sweet shop, and Sam drew paper and fountain pen from his pocket. Bert, looking over his shoulder, read as he wrote:
I, Samuel Sickles, will put $500 into the business, and I, Herbert Quinby, will put in $300;
I, Samuel Sickles, will take two-thirds of the profits, and I, Herbert Quinby, will take one-third;
All monies shall be put into the bank in both our names.
"There!" Sam announced. "That's a binding document."
It looked legal and imposing to Bert, but his eyes had clouded. "Why do I get only one-third?" he asked.
"Isn't an idea worth something?" Sam demanded. "One-third to me for my money, one-third to you for your money, and the other one-third to me for the idea. When a man invents something, that's only an idea, but he gets a royalty on it. That's business."
Bert was half convinced. But one-third seemed so small. . . .
"No use wasting time," Sam said irritably, and reached for the agreement. "We sign this or I tear it up."
Bert clutched at the opportunity that seemed to be slipping. "I'll sign," he said, and another copy of the agreement was written. That night Bert slept with his copy under his pillow.
A tinge of that desire for secrecy that comes, at some time, to every boy, was now his. He cherished a vision of future prosperity, of taking the town by the ears and of being pointed out as a young man who would go far. He did not tell his mother what lay in store for him, nor did he so much as hint at the plan to his father. To let another into the secret would have seemed, somehow, to make the whole affair commonplace and public.
And yet, he wanted to confide in the Butterfly Man.
Why this should be so he did not stop to analyze. Perhaps, in the back of his mind, was the fear that those at home would ridicule his aspirations. And so, as many another boy had done before, he set out to open his secret heart to a stranger, secure in his belief that some magic part of the stranger would understand and would give him a vague something he was not sure he would find at home.
It was noon when he reached the cabin in the clearing. Tom Woods was cooking the noonday meal, and took another plate from the closet and spun it across the table.
"Smells good in here," said Bert, and sniffed with appreciation.
"Ought to," the man drawled. "Chickens stewed with noodles. I had a hunch that you or Bill would be along, and I wanted to do myself proud. Bill isn't plugging along behind you, is he?"
"No."
"Sorry. Sort of wish that keg of gunpowder would breeze in and let me get a look at his drawings. Well, you'll have to eat your share and Bill's. I can't give you any aid. When you're forty you can't pinch-hit for somebody else at a feed. A forty-year-old stomach won't stand for it."
Bert ate. Now that he was here, he found something holding back what it had been on his tongue to tell. He was reluctant to break the splendor of the dream that was all his. Gorged to the limit at last, he leaned back in his chair and stared blissfully across the table. The Butterfly Man, who had already lighted his pipe, stared back with gravity in his eyes.
"Get rid of it," he said pleasantly. "You'll feel better."
Bert was startled. "Get rid of what?"
"What you came out here to tell me. What have you done, robbed a bank? Set fire to a hospital? What's the crime? Learned to play a ukulele?"
Bert shook his head. "No; I'm going into business."
"Who are you going to work for?"
"It's my own business—a partnership."
The Butterfly Man, with a sudden motion, took the pipe out of his mouth. "With that smart-Alec clerk in your father's store? What a noodle-head I'm becoming! I might have known, the way he had you wrapped up in him, that there was a hook in it somewhere. How far have you gone? Have you put in any money?"
"Not yet; but I've signed a contract. We signed it last night."
"Let's see it."
Bert took the paper from his pocket and handed it across the table. The man read it, once, twice, three times, and his pipe smoldered and went out.
"Two-thirds for Sam," he observed at last. "I'm not surprised. He reminds me of a chap I knew years ago. Great fisherman. Always got the most fish. If he was one of a boat party, and somebody pulled in a couple of good ones, he'd be right over with his line. No such thing as respecting anybody else's place. He was out to get two-thirds of the fish and I guess he got them, but he left a mighty bad taste in the mouth. What is this Shoppers' Service?"
Bert explained. Not a muscle in the man's face moved, but once he shook his head ever so slightly.
"You don't like it?" Bert asked, disappointed.
"Never mind that now. Why does Sam get two-thirds of the profits?"
"Why, it's his plan. He's going to put in the experience and the knowledge. That's worth something."
"Yes; if he can deliver. But how do you know he has this knowledge?"
"He's read books about business. . . ."
"I've read books about health, but I'm not a doctor. How do you know he has this knowledge? How did he prove it to you?"
Bert was silent. Abruptly the Butterfly Man stood up and began to clear the table. After a moment the boy left his chair to help. The man's argument had stumped him; yet, with something of his old doggedness, he clung to his original belief. Hadn't his father praised Sam? Hadn't the clerk been held up to him as a model after whom it might be well to pattern?
The Butterfly Man put the last dish away. "What does your father think of this?"
"I haven't told him yet."
"Why not; afraid?"
"N . . . no." Bert made a vague gesture with his hands. "You know how fathers are."
The man made no comment. "You've got to tell him."
"I will."
"When?"
"Soon."
"That won't do, old man. You've got to tell him to-day."
Bert looked up quickly. "Why?"
"Well . . . Let's look at it this way: Your father thinks a lot of this Sam chap. He's spent time to train him. Sam fills a niche in the store, takes a certain amount of work on his shoulders and makes himself valuable. When he leaves. . . ."
"Leaves?" Bert echoed.
"Why, certainly. When this new business starts he's got to leave your father. Your father can't find a new clerk in a day. You can't tell him at the last minute."
"I never thought of that," Bert said weakly.
"That's the trouble, Bert," the Butterfly Man sighed. "Fellows of your age forget so many things."
Here was a complication as disastrous as it was unexpected. The boy pictured in his mind the interview that had to be, and did not find it to his liking. He had not given a thought to how this might affect his father's fortunes . . . he had been too much concerned with the rosy promise of his own chance. Why, this was just like . . . just like stealing a clerk out of the store.
Contrition smote him. He had not been much of a help to the business, but even his going had been felt. The loss of Sam Sickles would be a calamity. Since the evening he had brought his accordion downstairs he and his father had had many fine hours . . . but he nursed no false conceptions of what to-night would bring. His father's face would darken and then a wrath of words would pour down upon his head. It wasn't a pleasant thing to think about.
The shadow of it lay over him all the way back to Springham. The mellow chimes of a church bell announced six o'clock as he rode into town. While yet some distance from the house, he dismounted from his wheel and pushed it before him; and instead of leaving the bicycle propped against the porch and going in the front way, he entered the house by the kitchen. His movements were furtive, and sharp eyes would have read in him something of guilt.
But his mother was busy preparing to carry a roast of lamb to the dining room. "Hurry, Bert," she said. "You'll just have time to wash."
His father and his mother were at the table when he came downstairs. The lamb, tender and juicy, was as dry straw on his tongue. He fidgeted in his chair. His mother could observe him now, and slowly a shadow spread over her face.
"I'm . . . I'm taking all my money out of the bank," the boy said suddenly and explosively.
Mr. Quinby laid down his fork. "What for?"
"I'm going in business."
Slowly a twinkle of amusement grew in the man's eyes. He began to chuckle. "Sam's been talking to you?"
"Yes, sir."
"That fellow could talk business ambition into a brass monkey." To the man the thing was a joke. He was amused at the thought of a boy adventuring into the realm of man's work. "I suppose this is going to be a real up-and-going concern?"
"Yes, sir."
"Going to rent an office or a store?" The tone was jocular.
"A store."
"A store? Great Scott, I didn't think it was that serious. You mean you're honestly thinking of renting a store?"
"We've got to have a store."
"We?" This time the man's tone was sharp. "Who's in the thing with you?"
"Sam."
It was out at last, and Bert felt that a load was lifted from his heart. The effect was electrical. Mrs. Quinby gave a nervous start and upset her cup of tea. Mr. Quinby, after an exclamation of anger, pushed away his plate and sat there black and glowering. Several seconds passed before he spoke.
"Tell me what crack-brained plan you're up to now," he said grimly.
Bert told the story of the Shoppers' Service, and for the second time that day brought the agreement from his pocket. His father, seeming to read it at a glance, folded it and threw it on the table.
"Another clerk to hire and break in just when I've got one trained," he said bitterly. "Do you realize that this takes Sam away from me?"
"I know it now."
"That means you didn't think of it at first?"
"No, sir; I didn't think of it until to-day."
"I suppose I should thank you for thinking of it at all. There's just one thing I want to know. Whose plan was this, yours or Sam's?"
"Sam's. He told me a month ago he was looking around for an opening."
Mr. Quinby gave a short, hard laugh, stood up, and left the room. Another moment and the front door closed. The boy knew that he was gone.
"Bert!" his mother said. "What will you do next?"
He flushed hotly. "Why does pop always think I do things just to hurt him?"
"Why do you always hurt him?" she asked.
The question stung him. He took refuge in his old sanctuary—his room—and there gave himself up to bitter reflections. No matter what he did, it seemed, he did wrong. Here he was with his big chance, but what difference did that make? Was he supposed to be able to think of everything? After Sam left, if the new clerk didn't do everything just so, the blame would be his. He'd hear about it, all right; oh, yes, he'd hear about it. He threw up his hands with an impatient motion that, had he known it, was an exact copy of his father's.
"I suppose the only thing for me to do," he scowled, "is to back out. Then everybody will be happy." In spite of his depression, the idea gave him the painful-pleasurable emotion of a martyr.
He came down the stairs on tiptoe, let himself out of the house, and went over to Washington Avenue. A glance through the window showed him that Sam was alone. He went into the store.
"Well, you did spill the beans, didn't you?" Sam demanded in disgust. "Why did you tell your father? I didn't want him to know this until I was ready to quit. Now I'll be out a couple of weeks' wages. I ought to collect that from our profits."
Up to this point Sam had dominated the enterprise. But Bert had met trouble that day and was in no mood for genial compromises. His reply, short and peppery, gave testimony that the Shoppers' Service was going to be no strictly one-man affair.
"Show it to me in our agreement," he said.
Sam became blandly argumentative. "This thing has come up later. You shouldn't expect me to lose. . . ."
"You're putting up five-eighths the money and getting two-thirds of the profits. That ought to be enough."
Sam gave him a startled glance and said no more.
Bert walked restlessly back and forth in front of the show cases that held the shirts and underwear. He had already dismissed from his mind the spat with Sam . . . his father's anger was of far more moment.
"Did my father pitch into you?" he demanded suddenly.
"He asked me if I was dissatisfied here," the clerk answered. "I told him no, but that I wanted to improve my position. He went right out. He didn't say much."
That fact had begun to worry Bert. He was used to lengthy scoldings, and the way his father was acting moved him to anxiety. His father had left the table and had walked out of the house, and had then asked Sam a question and had walked out of the store. A storm of words ran itself out, vented its anger and announced its position, and was done. Silence might mean anything.
"There isn't any chance of any mistake in the business, is there?" he asked abruptly. He didn't say whose business he meant, but Sam understood.
"In financial matters," the clerk said wisely, "you check up everything. Figures do not lie. I've gone over the number of subscribers we will get, and the stuff we are sure to sell in the store. We'll surely clear three hundred dollars a month."
Bert divided the sum in his mind. One hundred to him—two hundred to Sam. The thing was a gold mine. And then he sighed. If he expected to have any peace at home he'd have to step out and let the chance go by.
Mr. Quinby returned to the store. There was that in his bearing that said that he had fought out a question with himself and had come to a decision. He hung up his hat in the rear, remained there a while, and finally came out.
"That sale on boys' sport stockings starts to-morrow," he said to Sam. "Did you get them out and sort them by sizes?"
"Yes, sir."
"We'd better dress a window with those stockings to-night. There's a box of a dozen collars to be delivered before you go home." The voice was impersonal. And in the past he had always spoken to the clerk with the warmth of a co-worker.
Sam went forward to clear out one of the two windows. Bert took a step toward his father and stopped, for his father's eyes were regarding him fixedly.
"I . . . I never thought about Sam leaving here. I guess we had better drop this Shoppers' Service."
But his father, in a way that was new to him, would have none of this surrender. "Bert, you'd always blame me if you didn't go through with this; you'd always figure that you would have made a success of it if I had not stood in your way. You didn't come and ask my advice; you came and told me what you intended to do."
"But I can't take Sam; the store needs him."
"I don't want Sam, now. He isn't interested in my business to the exclusion of everything else. He wants to try something else. He says so. I've already told him he could finish here Saturday week."
Bert did not argue . . . there was a finality about his father that forbade. At any rate, he told himself, he had tried to back out. He had the virtuous feeling that, after all, he had been practically forced into the venture that was to bring him a golden profit of one hundred dollars every month.
He was not sorry.