Great Brain At the Academy

by John D. Fitzgerald

  “You can’t do that,” Sweyn protested. “Only the candy butcher can sell things on a train.”

  Did this make Tom give up his idea? Heck no. When it came to money he was like a bloodhound on the trail of a fugitive.

  “Then I’ll make a deal with the candy butcher,” he said.

  Tom found the candy butcher sitting on the rear seat in the smoking car. “Let me sell this food on the train,” he said, “and I’ll buy candy with all the money I get. Is it a deal?”

  “It sure is,” the candy butcher said. “See those four

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  men playing poker on a suitcase at the other end of the car? They were complaining because I don’t sell sandwiches like they do on the main line. Try them.”

  Tom walked to the other end of the smoking car. “The candy butcher told me you men were hungry,” he said. “A piece of home-fried chicken and a bread-and- butter sandwich will cost you a dime-The hard-boiled eggs are a nickel and the cake ten cents.”

  Tom collected seventy-five cents from the hungry poker players and then stood watching the game-The men were playing stud poker. A man the other players called Mr. Harrison was winning and a man named Baylor who looked like a rancher was the big loser. The other two players were complaining about losing also. Tom watched while four hands were played and he knew why Mr. Harrison was winning. He decided to tell Mr. Walters about it. He stopped and gave the candy butcher the seventy-five cents, saying he would get the candy later. He found Mr. Walters in the caboose with the brakeman.

  “Is it part of your job to watch out for card sharks?” he asked.

  “It certainly is, Tom,” the conductor said. “You see, whenever a passenger loses money to a card shark on a train he never blames the card shark or himself. He always blames the railroad. Why do you ask?”

  “Those four men playing poker in the smoking car are using a marked deck of cards,” Tom answered.

  Mr. Walters looked as surprised as a man who opens a can of beans and finds peas inside instead. “You must be mistaken,” he said. “I inspected that deck of cards be-fore the men started to play, and my years of experience

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  as a conductor have taught me just about every way a deck can be marked.”

  “These cards are marked at the factory,” Tom said. “My uncle. Mark Trainor. is the marshal and deputy sher-iff in Adenville and he showed me a deck just like it. A salesman selling playing cards came to town. He offered both saloonkeepers such a good price that they each bought fifty decks of cards. A week later a man calling himself Harry Johnson came to town and began playing poker in both saloons. He won so much money that the players said he was either the luckiest poker player in the world or a caid cheat. But nobody could prove he was cheating and he kept on winning money every night. Un-cle Mark knew nobody could be that lucky. He got a deck of the cards from a saloonkeeper and took it to his office. He studied it for hours before he discovered how they were marked at the factory. He arrested Harry Johnson, who confessed he and the card salesman were partners.”

  Mr, Walters nodded his head. “That was a slick confidence game,” he said. “The salesman got the cards into the saloons and then his partner came along and, using the marked cards, had to win. I didn’t like the looks of that Harrison fellow with his manicured nails and waxed moustache. They are his cards.”

  They went to the smoking car and waited until the poker players finished playing a hand. Mr. Harrison won again. Then Mr. Walters picked up the deck of cards.

  “What is the idea?” Mr. Harrison asked. “You checked these cards and so did these three gentlemen before we started to play.”

  “Then you won’t mind if my friend here takes a look

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  at them/’ Mr. Walters said, handing the deck to Tom.

  “That’s the kid who sold us the food,” Mr. Harrison said. “What is this, some kind of a joke?”

  The moment Tom spotted the marked deck of cards he had put his great brain to work on how to take financial advantage oŁ the situation. He looked at Mr. Walters.

  “If I can prove this deck is marked, will Mr. Harrison have to return all the money he has won?” he said.

  “He certainly will,” the conductor said.

  Then Tom looked at the three losing poker players. “I figure it should be worth a dollar apiece to you to know how these cards are marked so you can get your money back,” he said.

  Mr. Baylor nodded his head. “You figure right, boy,” he said.

  Tom held the deck with the faces down and dealt out five piles of cards with just four cards in four of the piles and the rest in the fifth pile.

  “This deck has a small diamond design on the back like most playing cards,” Tom said. “The diamonds are arranged at the place where the cards are manufactured, so anybody who knows the secret can tell how many high cards the other players have by looking at the backs.”

  He pointed at one of the piles. “These four cards have full diamonds across the top and bottom edges, which means they are the four aces,” he said.

  Mr. Baylor turned the four cards over, revealing the four aces.

  Tom pointed at another pile. “These four cards have half diamonds across the top and bottom edges, which means they are the four kings,” he said.

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  Mr. Baylor turned over the four kings, “And this pile.” Tom said, “has quarter diamonds across the top and bottom edges, which means they are the four queens.”

  Mr. Baylor turned over the four queens. “This last pile of four cards,” Tom said, “has full diamonds down both sides, which means they are the four jacks.” He turned over the four jacks himself. “All the other cards in the deck have staggered full and half diamonds on all four edges. Mr. Harrison could tell by looking at the backs of your cards whether you had an ace, king, queen, or jack as a hole card playing stud poker, and playing draw poker he could tell how many high cards you held in your hands.”

  Mr. Baylor slammed his fist down on the suitcase. “You lowdown skunk of a card cheat,” he said to Mr. Harrison. “I’m going to drag you off this train at the next stop and beat you to a pulp.”

  “Simmer down,” Mr. Walters said- “As soon as Mr. Harrison returns all the money he has won from you gentlemen I will take him to the caboose and handcuff him to a seat. He and the deck of cards will be turned over to the police when we get to Salt Lake City. It will then be up to you men to go to police headquarters and sign a com-plaint.”

  And that is how Tom spotted a card shark and made himself three dollars richer on his first train trip. Papa had once said that if Tom fell down into a deep hole, instead of breaking a leg The Great Brain would probably discover a gold mine. But the way Tom ended his first let-ter almost made a nervous wreck out of me waiting for his

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  next to arrive. And here is why-

  “This has been a long letter, J.D.,” Tom wrote. “So I will have to wait until my next letter to tell you about the rest of my first train ride and the most exciting experience of my life. When you tell the kids in Adenville about it they will all turn green with envy.”

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  CHAPTER TWO

  Tom at the Throttle

  ALL WEEK I WONDERED what could possibly have happened to Tom on his first train ride that made it the most exciting experience of his life. When I finally received his second letter I understood why he had said that all the kids in town would turn green with envy. When I showed the kids the letter they didn’t actually turn green any more than a yellow-bellied coward has a yellow belly. But you never saw such a bunch of envious kids in your life.

  When Tom came home for the Christmas vacation with Sweyn he told Papa, Mamma, Aunt Bertha, our four-year-old foster brother Frankie, and me all about riding in

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  the locomotive from Provo to Salt I^ake City. Hearing him tell it was ten times more exciting than reading about it. Tom’s great brain had already figured this out. He charged the kids two cents apiece to ente
r our bam and listen to him personally tell about his exciting experience. And every kid in town from four years old to sixteen was there.

  I, of course, had to get Sweyn’s side of the story, which was a little different from Tom’s story. But by putting both together I can tell just about exactly what did hap-pen:

  After collecting his three dollars from the grateful poker players Tom went to the other end of the smoking car and sat down beside the candy butcher. He collected the seventy-five-cents worth of candy that the man owed him.

  “Why do they call you a butcher?” he asked.

  “It is a show business slang word,” the candy butcher said. “In vaudeville and burlesque theaters men who sell candy during intermission are called candy butchers. When men began selling candy and things on trains the name just stuck.”

  “I don’t see how you make any money,*’ Tom said. “The train fare must eat up all the profits.”

  “I ride the trains free,” the candy butcher said. “My run is from Cedar City to Ogden and back.”

  Tom returned to his seat and dumped fifteen five-cent bars of candy on it. “I made a deal with the candy butcher,” he told Sweyn. “He let me sell the rest of our lunch if I’d buy candy with it. I got seventy-five cents.”

  “Half of that lunch was mine,” Sweyn said. “You got twenty cents from the salesman and seventy-five cents more, which makes ninety-five cents. You can have the odd

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  nickel because you did all the work. Just give me my forty-five cents in cash.”

  Poor old Sweyn was a dreamer if he thought he was going to talk The Great Brain out of forty-five cents.

  “If I remember correctly,” Tom said, “you told me I was a conniver for selling part of the lunch and Mamma would have a fit if she knew about it. I sure as heck don’t want it on my conscience that I made a conniver out of my own brother and made him partly responsible for our mother having a fit. So I will just keep all the profits and my conscience will be clear. But dividing the profits and giving my brother some candy are two different things. Help yourself to as many bars as you can eat.”

  Sweyn knew when he was beat. He helped himself to a chocolate bar and a peanut bar. Tom put one bar of candy in his pocket. Then he got down his suitcase and put the remaining twelve bars of candy between his clothing.

  Sweyn stared at him bug-eyed. “Just what do you think you are doing?” he asked.

  “If the fellows at the academy are only allowed ten cents worth of candy every four weeks,” Tom said, “I shouldn’t have any trouble selling these five-cent bars of candy for a dime each. And once I get my candy store going I’ll make a fortune.”

  “Have you gone plumb loco?” Sweyn asked. “What candy store?”

  Tom closed his suitcase and put it back on the rack. “The candy store I’m going to open at the academy,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll double my money on every bar of candy I sell.”

  “No you won’t,” Sweyn said. “There is no possible

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  way for you to smuggle enough candy into the academy to start a candy store. And I’m not going to let you smuggle in even those twelve bars. I’ll tell Father Rodriguez they are in your suitcase.”

  Tom was as flabbergasted as a duck who discovers it can’t swim. “Do you mean to tell me you would inform on your own brother?” he asked.

  “I can’t help it,” Sweyn said. “I promised Mom and Dad that I would keep an eye on you. And if you get into any trouble they are going to blame me.”

  Tom munched on his bar of candy while he put his great brain to work. “I sure feel sorry for you if you do tell,” he finally said. “That would force me to tetl all the kids at the academy that my big brother is a tattletale. And that, S.D., will make you about as popular as a skunk in a parlor.”

  Sweyn was beat and knew it. “That’s blackmail,” he said. “But all right. I want a signed statement from you that any trouble you get into at the academy is your own fault. I’ll need it to show to Mom and Dad when you get expelled.”

  “That is fair enough,” Tom said.

  He got down his suitcase and removed a notebook and pencil from it. Holding the suitcase on his knees he wrote:

  To Whom It May Concern:

  No matter what happens to me at the Catholic Academy for Boys I take all the blame personally. T. D. Fitzgerald

  He tore the page from the notebook and handed it to Sweyn. “Does that satisfy you?” he asked.

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  Sweyn read the note. “I’m satisfied,” he said.

  Tom was no dummy. He handed the pencil and notebook to Sweyn. “Now write what I tell you,” he said. “To whom it may concern: I promise not to interfere with anything my brother does at the Catholic Academy for Boys. And sign it.”

  Sweyn wrote the statement and handed it to Tom. “I’m not interfering,” he said. “Just giving you some brotherly advice. Every once in a while they have an inspection at the academy. The priests search your locker, desk, suitcase, and any other place you might hide candy or magazines we aren’t supposed to read or anything else that might be forbidden.”

  “That is my worry now, not yours,” Tom said. Then he took the three silver dollars from his pocket and began jingling them in his hand.

  “Where did you get all that money?” Sweyn asked, as astonished as could be.

  Tom told him about the marked deck of cards and the poker players. Sweyn couldn’t help feeling a little envious. Tom had made a neat profit of four dollars and twenty cents on his first train ride and twenty-five cents of that was formerly Sweyn’s money. Papa had often said when a person starts to envy another person the devil is right there to whisper in his ear. Right then the devil was whispering to Sweyn how he could get even.

  “The money won’t do you any good at the academy,” he said. “There is no place to spend it.”

  “What’s the matter with spending it outside the academy?” Tom asked.

  “We only get outside the walls one day every four weeks,” Sweyn said. “Father Rodriguez or one of the other

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  priests is always with us even then. And all you can spend is ten cents for candy.”

  “If you can’t spend any money, where do you go?” Tom asked.

  “Sometimes the priests take us on a nature-study hike or a picnic,” Sweyn said. “Sometimes we just go sight-seeing or to the museum or art gallery. And once in a while as a treat we get to go to the Salt Lake Theater. Buy-ing a ticket to get in is the only way you can spend any money.”

  “What about sports?” Tom asked.

  Sweyn was really enjoying the look of dismay on Tom’s face. “What sports?” he asked. “The only athletics at the academy is one hour of calisthenics in the gymnasium on school days. And the gym is nothing but an old barn with a hardwood floor.”

  By this time Tom was almost wishing he had been born a Mormon or a Protestant. “You never told Papa and Mamma it was like a prison,” he said.

  “I’m no crybaby,” Sweyn said. And then he really poured salt in Tom’s wounds, “Thank the Lord this is my last year at the academy, because they only have the seventh and eighth grades. Next year I’ll be going to high school in Pennsylvania and living with some of Papa’s relatives. And while I’m enjoying myself there I promise I’ll think of you often, little brother, and of how you are suffering at the academy.”

  Tom felt so down in the dumps he didn’t even get angry at the “little brother” bit. Sweyn made the academy sound as if all the students had to wear striped-suits with numbers on them. He knew there was only one thing to do.

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  “No candy, no sports, no nothing,” he said. “I guess I’ll have to put my great brain to work on it and get some changes made at the academy.”

  “The only thing you will change will be yourself,” Sweyn said, “from an enrolled student to an expelled student. The Jesuit priests are plenty sharp because they have been dealing with boys for years. You won’t be able to put any
thing over on them.”

  Did that discourage Tom? Heck no. He was confident he could make life easier for himself and the other kids at the academy.

  A few minutes later Mr. Walters came into the coach. “Provo is the next stop,” he called out. “There will be a twenty-minute stopover for passengers to get something to eat. The dining room is located right next to the depot.”

  Sweyn stood up when the train stopped. “I’m, going to get a glass of milk and piece of pie in the dining room,” he said.

  “Go ahead,” Tom said. “I’m not hungry.”

  Tom wasn’t just twisting a Iamb’s tail trying to make it bark like a dog when he said he had to learn all about trains by the time he arrived in Salt Lake City. But how could he if he didn’t get to ride in the locomotive? He realized it was something every kid dreams about but only one in a million ever gets to do.

  He got off the train with Sweyn and walked up to where the locomotive was preparing to take on water and coal. He had seen many locomotives in Adenville but this was the first time it had entered his mind that they were things of beauty. The locomotive had the number 205 on the round brass plate on its nose, a shiny brass bell, a whistle and headlight, a blue steel belly, and gigantic

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  wheels. With smoke coming from the smokestack and steam escaping from the cylinders it was almost as if the locomotive was a living thing.

  Tom walked back and waited for Mr. Walters to come out of the stationmaster’s office.

  “Think they will ever have it so passengers can eat right on a train?” he asked.

  “It is coming, Tom,” the conductor said. “We already have sleeping cars on the main line invented by a man named Pullman. And a man named Fred Harvey is working on a dining car that will serve hot meals right on the train.”