Charlie? Robert knew she hated the name. Then he realized – with the cap and the dungarees, she was hoping to pass for a boy.
“And my name is Robert Tourond and I can out-work Charlene any day of the week. She shouldn’t even be here. The sign said delivery boy and she’s a girl, Mr....ah...” Robert fumbled for the missing name.
“It’s Crabtree, Mr. Crabtree, to you and I’m the telegraphist here.” He chewed on his cigar as he appraised Charlie, who didn’t appear particularly girlish in the rough trousers and shirt. “Now I have a better gander, you certainly are a girl.” He chuckled, a deep rumbling noise like a John Deere tractor starting up. “Never thought about hiring a female before.”
“I know the city, Mr. Crabtree.” Charlie spoke quickly in her defence. “And I’m as fast as any boy.”
“Not on the old wreck I saw outside,” Robert interjected, cutting her off before she could say anything more. “It’s a junker.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I can beat you any day of the week!” she boasted, but they both knew it wasn’t going to happen that day.
“Whoa, now hold on, the pair of you.” Mr. Crabtree’s words ended the fight and sent them both to their corners. “I’m not sure a girl would be fast enough. We can’t keep people waiting for their news while you put on fresh rouge.”
Charlie tensed and her lips formed into the tight line Robert had seen before when she was really ticked off. He couldn’t imagine her wearing rouge any more than he could picture a grizzly bear in a tutu.
“Now, now, no need to get huffy, young lady; I can see you don’t use the stuff.” The stout gent rolled the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “We’ll decide this the good old-fashioned way.” He walked over to the counter and wrote on two pieces of telegram paper, then folded the notes and sealed them.
“The first one to deliver his – or her – telegram, will get the job.” He passed them each an envelope.
Both applicants stood looking at him, dutifully holding their letters.
“Well, what in Jehoshaphat’s glorious green garden are you waiting for?” Mr. Crabtree exploded, the cigar wagged up and down like a scolding finger. “Shoo!”
Robert bolted for the door with Charlie in hot pursuit. They pushed and elbowed each other, trying to get the advantage. Robert didn’t give an inch – this was no time to be a gentleman. This was war.
“Nice bike,” he taunted as he grabbed his own shining ride. “Did Noah have a spare on the ark?”
He was off before Charlie had a chance to reply, his Raleigh light years faster than her clunker. Checking the address written on the telegram, he saw it was down by the new Colonel Belcher Hospital, about fifteen minutes away, maybe less if he caught the lights right.
He was confident this job was his. Maybe he could start today.
Since he was almost an official telegram delivery boy, Robert felt he was allowed to bend the rules of the road a little as he split the lanes on Fourth Street. Ahead, he saw the railway tracks and, worst luck, there was a long, long freight train dawdling past.
Impatiently, he waited as precious seconds ticked by. “Come on, come on, you rusty pile of scrap,” he muttered under his breath.
Finally, the track cleared and Robert sped forward, legs churning. He narrowly missed a woman who stepped out from the sidewalk and walked directly into his path. “Hey, lady, the crosswalk’s at the corner!” he yelled in his best delivery boy style as he dodged around her.
At last he saw the street he needed, then the house he wanted, and then, coming from a side street ahead of him...Charlie Donnelly, wheeling up to the same address!
He couldn’t believe it. How had she done it? What kind of wings had she stolen to pull this miracle off?
Sliding to a stop, he reached for the gate latch as Charlie leapt the fence and sprinted ahead of him. He raced after her, vaulting up the steps of the veranda to stand beside her in front of the wooden door. They both knocked, and then waited for someone to answer their summons.
The door was opened by an elderly and very diminutive lady, who peered up at them through glasses with round black rims, which reminded Robert of a little owl. Immediately, both Charlie and Robert stepped forward. “Telegram delivery, ma’am!” they chimed in unison as they thrust their letters out in front of them.
She tut, tutted. “My, this will make it tricky. Come in, children, come in.” She swung the screen door wide and they entered the bright hallway. “Cyrus telephoned to say you were coming.”
She used a cane as she hobbled over to the wall where a black telephone waited. “I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.” She whirled the crank on the phone and told the operator the number she needed.
Robert could hear the ringing at the other end.
“Hello, dear. Your telegrams have arrived.”
Muffled words issued from the receiver.
“I couldn’t say, Cyrus. When I opened the door, they were both standing there like two peas in a pod.” She paused, listening; then nodded as if Mr. Crabtree could somehow see her. “Yes, I thought it a might unusual, too. You’d be the first.” A thundered reply had Mrs. Crabtree holding the instrument away from her ear. “Yes, yes, I think that’s the best choice, dear.”
She hung up and turned to Robert and Charlie. “He says you are to return right away.”
They rode in stony silence back to the office. Robert worked on keeping his temper in check, while trying to figure out how Crazy Charlie beat him to the house. With her on that wreck of a bike, it should have been a cakewalk for him. Maybe it had been the two minute delay for the train? Still, how had she made such good time with those big balloon tires and no gears?
Mr. Crabtree was waiting when they arrived.
“This is not the result I had expected. The thing is, I need a delivery boy, ah, girl. Dang it, I need someone to deliver the blasted telegrams!” The cigar rolled from one side of his mouth to the other, like a dead fish in the bottom of a boat.
Robert touched his pendant, the meteorite responding with a burst of warmth.
“You have to understand, kids, this is an auxiliary office, not the busiest by far for deliveries. If you two are willing to share the glory...” Here the telegrapher guffawed, “And the wages, I guess I could try you both out for now. No promises, mind you. Mrs. Crabtree thinks it would be ground breaking for me to employ a female as a delivery boy, I mean girl. Usually girls go for a telegrapher’s job, operating one of those fancy Vibroplex bugs.” He sized Charlie up. “I think I’ve got a uniform that will fit, almost.”
The cigar made its way back to the other side of his mouth.
“Now, down to brass tacks. You’ll be paid three cents per delivery with a bonus of twenty five cents for Mewata and $2.50 for Bowness or Ogden due to sheer distance, as they’re on the outskirts of town. I expect you to show up on time, be polite to customers and to keep your uniforms clean. You’re representing CPR Telegraphs.”
He disappeared into the back recesses while Robert and Charlie fumed at each other.
“You heard him,” Charlie hissed. “At three cents each, it’s going to take a lot of telegrams before I’m rolling in the dough and now I’ll have to split the gold with you!”
Robert was not happy either, simply as a matter of principal. Crazy Charlie Donnelly should not be rewarded for being Crazy Charlie Donnelly. First the savings stamps, then the water tower, then the miraculous telegram delivery (he still didn’t know how she’d pulled it off) and now she’d stolen half his income by taking a job no girl had a right to! Still, at three cents each, if he could deliver four telegrams a day, he’d have enough to buy his heroes and more! His brothers would be safe and he’d have all the comic books he wanted.
He supposed he could be generous. Maybe she wanted to buy something special, something unusual for her – like a dress.
“Stop bellyaching, Charlie. We’re both stuck with the arrangement, unless you want to pull out...”
“As if!” she scoffed. �
��Why don’t you scram? I was here first and I got to old lady Crabtree’s house ahead of you. If anybody deserts it should be you, Wonder Weed.”
There was that rotten nickname again. He tried not to show how ticked off he was. It would give her his Achilles heel.
Mr. Crabtree walked out of the back carrying two charcoal grey uniforms, each with a peaked cap, pants like riding breeches, plus a tailored coat with shiny silver buttons. The CPR Telegraphs insignia was on the cap and collar. “It’s a good thing you’re a long drink of water, Miss Donnelly. The last boy who wore this was about your height.” He issued each of them their uniforms and a handbook. “Read the regulations. Follow the procedures. New hires have two weeks to see if they’re suited to the job, then I decide who stays. I’ll expect you both here tomorrow after school and ready to roll.”
As they left in sullen silence, Robert heard the staccato tapping of an outgoing message being keyed.
He watched Charlie wrestle with her heavy bicycle. “Where’d you get your pet dinosaur, anyway?”
She gave the bike a mighty heave and it came reluctantly loose from the rack. “I bought it on the weekend.”
He laughed. “Bought it! Man, someone saw you coming.”
She turned on him, hot anger spilling out. “Yeah, well if I hadn’t worked my butt off to win the grease contest, I wouldn’t even have this. I knew this job was coming up two weeks ago and made plans to make sure I got it. Then you waltz in here at the last minute, like some Johnny-come-lately, and try to shove me out! Well, you can think again,” she smirked wickedly, “Wonder Weed.” Scrunching her uniform into her backpack, she leapt onto her old bike, straightened and peddaled away.
Robert watched her go. Trying to hide his dislike of the nickname didn’t seem to have worked. “Shake it off, Tourond.” He chided himself. “You can’t let her get to you.”
She’d made plans, had she? He remembered the smudged window with the job application sign and realized what had been on the glass. It hadn’t been dirt, it had been soap! She’d tried to limit the number of applicants by hiding the blasted sign. And she’d wanted the stamps to trade in for cash, too! Unbelievably, to buy that hunk of junk she rode. He didn’t care what she’d done to get the job or why she wanted it so badly. He had a shot at earning enough money to make sure he got his comics, and if it meant riding over Charlie Donnelly, he had no problem. This was war and he took no prisoners!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FIRST BLOOD
Robert read the address on his first delivery. He was pretty sure he knew where he had to go, but had taken the precaution of tucking a city map inside the pocket of his uniform jacket. He’d check to make sure he was right once he was a little further away. No sense in making the boss worry about the competency of his new delivery boy.
He had to admit, he was excited. His bike against Crazy Charlie’s old junker-clunker was no contest. And when Mr. Crabtree assessed their work in two weeks, his lightning-speed deliveries may persuade the telegrapher that one super delivery boy was all he needed.
Crazy Charlie was also scrutinizing her first assignment. “Cakewalk,” she said casually as she tucked the envelope into her satchel and turned for the door. Robert hurried after her.
“Where you off to?” he asked, eyeing her dilapidated bike. He wondered if Mr. Crabtree would give her addresses close by because Robert, with his superior set of wheels, stood less chance of breaking down.
“Across the Bow River.”
Robert noticed she had her going-into-battle thing going again, thin lips and all.
“I’ll be back in thirty.”
“Sure you will,” Robert hooted, knowing it was a long trip. “If you sprout wings and fly. I’m off to the Grain Exchange. Shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes round trip.”
As Charlie peddaled off, Robert absently tapped his pendant and added up how much money he’d make if he were lucky enough to have all his deliveries come in at fifteen minutes per trip. He’d never miss another comic book again. The stone answered with a low-level vibration.
After a couple of false starts, Robert finally stood at the Grain Exchange receptionist’s desk, cap set at a jaunty angle, buttons gleaming, the insignias plain for all to see. “CPR Telegraphs. Sign here, please, ma’am.” He offered his Proof of Delivery book, an essential tool of his new trade.
With only the merest squint at the page, the receptionist scribbled her name and took the proffered telegram, which Robert had at the ready – a model of delivery-boy efficiency.
Within minutes, he was on his way back, his first three cents assured. He was whistling when he pulled up to the bicycle stand. Then he cursed with irritation: Crazy Charlie’s beat-up wreck was already in the rack. Impossible! Hurrying inside, he caught the tail end of the conversation.
“This one goes to Bowness, a real trek, so you’ll receive the big bonus.”
Mr. Crabtree slid the telegram across the counter to Charlie.
Robert fumed. How had she done it? How had she made the round trip across the river in such a short space of time? That bonus job would have been his if he’d beaten her back. He should be the one getting an extra two-and-a-half dollars pay.
Swallowing his anger, Robert sat at the table in the corner designated Staff, and proceeded to wait...and wait, and wait. Lots of people came in with outgoing messages which the telegrapher added to his pile in the back room, but nothing for him. He remembered Mr. Crabtree saying the office wasn’t the busiest for deliveries, no kidding, and they would be split between him and Charlie. If this was what it was going to be like, it would be darn hard to make enough to keep him in comic books.
Finally, after an ice age, Mr. Crabtree called him to the counter. “Tourond, you’re off to the Grain Exchange Building again.”
“You bet, Mr. Crabtree.” Robert accepted the telegram, and started back to his previous destination and the three cents it would earn.
He remembered thinking how great it would be to have a lot of fifteen minute deliveries. “Be careful what you wish for,” he grumbled as he took off down the street.
By the time his shift was coming to a close, he had made only three deliveries: nine whole cents. It wasn’t enough for one comic, let alone the army he had planned on buying. Still, if he averaged three a day, it added up to forty-five cents a week, a tidy sum that would buy him his three top heroes and a few new friends to join his cadre. Plus, some leftover change could go into the savings-stamp kitty, keeping his mother happy.
Charlie was still not back from her high-paying trip, but Bowness had a lot of topography. Without gears, it would be a tough, slow slog.
Because of the distance, Mr. Crabtree had said Charlie would be gone for the rest of the day, so when she walked in at quitting time, the surprise on his face was almost comical.
“Well now, I hadn’t expected to see you again today. It’s mighty impressive of you to come all the way back here, Donnelly.” Mr. Crabtree rolled his unlit cigar around in his mouth.
Robert could see Charlie had sweated a lot in her uniform and her hair, which she’d braided into a long ponytail, had scraggly strands plastered to her neck.
“I thought you might need the log,” she held the Proof of Delivery book out to him.
The telegraph operator took the book and nodded. “True enough. However, your employment forms say you live in Bowness, which is why I made it clear you could finish up the paperwork tomorrow.”
Robert’s mouth dropped open at this news. Bowness! It was nowhere near Crescent Heights. He lived in Pleasant Heights, the next district over, and even with that close proximity, he’d had a hard time getting into Crescent Heights High. What was she doing at their school if she lived out in Bowness?
Charlie was like a cornered animal, darting furtive glances at him as she tried to come up with an answer. “Yes, sir, I do live there. You should also know that my motto is ‘the job comes first’.”
Robert had to admit, he sure as heck wouldn’t have come
all the way back downtown from Bowness if he didn’t have to. Crazy Charlie had lived up to her name again.
He was fussing with his bike when she emerged from the building. His delivery bag was in the basket and he rummaged in it pulling out the hip flask Patrick had loaned him. He was about to take a long swig, then noticed Charlie eyeing the bottle.
“It’s only water,” he said defensively. Robert remembered seeing her hand tremble when she’d turned in her log book and suspected she must be terribly thirsty from the long ride. “You want a drink?”
Charlie hesitated, as if about to say no, then nodded. “Thanks.” Taking the bottle, she greedily tipped it up.
When she returned it, there wasn’t a drop left. Robert took the empty flask and stashed it back in his bag, his own thirst unslaked. “Next time, bring water.” He eyed her curiously. Even after the drink, she was a mess. “So why do you go to Crescent Heights High? You must have to get up at a pretty disgusting hour every day.”
“You won’t say anything will you, Wonder Weed? If they find out I don’t live in the area, I’ll have to go to school in Bowness.”
“You haven’t answered the question.” He thought she was being evasive and was even more curious now.
“Guess I’m a sucker for a nifty brick building.” She took off her grey uniform jacket and carefully folded it before stashing it in her delivery bag. Pausing, she added, “And it’s a better school, no gangs, knives or trouble with the cops.”
Robert had heard how tough the Bowness neighbourhood was and could understand wanting out. He thought of the long ride and remembered that she used to run, even in the winter, and kind of admired Charlie for what she was doing. He motioned to her clunker. “You traded a whole book of savings stamps for this, huh?”
“Even with the stamps, I had to borrow some dough to buy it. It cost me ten bucks.”
“Ten dollars! The bike ain’t the only thing that took you for a ride.” His mouth spoke before his brain engaged.
She was instantly cold as January. “Yeah. I guess the dealership was all out of fancy import jobs when I got there.”
The Comic Book War: The Comic Book War Page 8
