The Great Brain Is Back

by John D. Fitzgerald

  Tom suffered one big disappointment. There was no state reward money for any of the outlaws, and the coal company must have figured that Sheriff Baker was just doing his job. Although they got the payroll money back, they didn’t give a reward either.

  The only reward Tom got was glory, but he made sure he received plenty of that. With Papa gone, Tom insisted he could get out a one-page extra of the Advocate. He wrote the story and set the type himself. I helped him run it off the press. LOCAL BOY HELPS CAPTURE WADE GANG read the headline.

  When it came to writing the story, Tom had as much modesty as a plucked chicken hanging in a butcher-shop window. He did give credit to the posse for actually capturing Red Wade and killing the other two outlaws. But he let it be known that without the help of Thomas D. Fitzgerald this never would have happened.

  As for me, I have no complaints. All I have to do is remember Red Wade and his squinty mean-eyed companion, Jake, and I get the shivers. Sweyn wasn’t up to normal, Frankie was too young, and I know that my little brain never could have saved our skins. All our days left on earth we owe to Tom and his great brain.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Swindler Is Swindled

  EARLY ONE HOT and sunny morning in late August, two Paiute braves showed up in front of our house. One of the Indians was Running Bear, nephew of Chief Rising Sun. I’d never seen the other brave before. Both Indians were riding pinto horses, and each horse carried two large baskets filled with peaches.

  Mamma, Frankie, Aunt Bertha, and I went out on the front porch to see what the Indians wanted.

  Running Bear and the other brave swung down from their horses. Without saying a word or even seeming to notice us, they unloaded the baskets and put them on the porch.

  The strange brave said something to Running Bear in Paiute. Running Bear grunted.

  Then, holding his pinto by its bridle, Running Bear told Mamma, “The Great Chief Tav-Whad-Im send gift to white friend called Fitzgerald. Chief Tav-Whad-Im send greeting from all Paiute of Pa-Roos-Its band.”

  Before Mamma could so much as say “Thank you,” Running Bear had mounted his horse. Giving a “Yip!” the braves rode off in a trail of dust.

  “Land sakes!” Aunt Bertha said, placing one of her hands over her heart. “What will happen next?”

  Mamma seemed not to hear Aunt Bertha. She was looking at the peaches. “What a fine gift,” she said. “This should keep us in pies and preserves all winter.”

  “We’ll have to get at them today,” Aunt Bertha said, recovering enough to start checking the baskets. “These peaches are dead ripe.”

  My nose could tell me that. Already my mouth was watering from the thought of peach pie and from the delicious aroma of ripe peaches rising from the baskets.

  “Can I have a peach?” Frankie asked, tugging at Mamma’s apron.

  Mamma smiled down at him. “Just one,” she said, “but that’s all for now. You’ll want more later, and I don’t want you to get a stomachache from too much fresh fruit.”

  “I won’t,” Frankie said, picking out a peach from the nearest basket.

  “Rinse it off,” Mamma said. “These peaches have probably traveled a long way, clear from Fruita, and there’s bound to be trail dirt on them.” Then she looked at Aunt Bertha.

  “I’ll check to make sure we have enough fruit jars,” Mamma said, “and start heating up the range. Could you go over to the Z.C.M.I. store and get a twenty-five–pound sack of sugar?”

  “As soon as I take off my apron and fix my hair,” Aunt Bertha said, heading toward the door.

  “Buy three dozen jar rings too,” Mamma called after her. “Frankie, get your wagon. You and John D. haul these baskets to the backyard. After that, I want you to take your wagon along to the store to carry the sugar home. Remind Aunt Bertha to get some paraffin in case we decide to make jam.”

  “What should I do?” I asked, knowing there would be a lot of work that day.

  “Fetch extra wood to the kitchen,” Mamma told me. “Then set up the apple-butter kettle in the yard and lay a fire under it. We can scald the peaches out there and keep the kitchen range free for making syrup and for processing.”

  She headed into the house after Aunt Bertha, but turned back to say, “Don’t go off after that, John D. I’ll have plenty for you to do.” Then she smiled and added, “Right now you can have a peach if you want one.”

  Did I ever! I picked the biggest, ripest peach I could find, and boy, oh, boy, was it good. That peach was so ripe the juice ran down the sides of my mouth and dripped off my chin.

  It took me a while to get the apple-butter kettle set up and a fire laid under it. After that I had to fetch six buckets of water to fill the kettle. Just as I had a fire going, Frankie came running into the yard.

  “Aunt Bertha fell!” he shouted. “She missed the step coming out of the Z.C.M.I. store and fell right on the sidewalk!”

  “Did she get hurt?” I asked. If a fellow my age had fallen over a measly step, he’d probably bounce, but Aunt Bertha was even older than Mamma and Papa, and she weighed a lot too.

  “Only a little bit,” Frankie said. “Dr. LeRoy says that her wrist is sprained and she must keep it in a sling for a week or so.”

  This was bad news. With a sprained wrist, Aunt Bertha couldn’t possibly help with the heavy work of canning. She couldn’t even peel the fruit or cut it up. I went into the kitchen to find out what Mamma was going to do.

  “I feel plumb useless,” Aunt Bertha was saying as Frankie and I came in the door.

  “There’s no use in crying over spilled milk,” Mamma told her. “The truth of the matter is that I’ve gotten spoiled having you around to help me. And you can help some. If you aren’t in too much pain, you can use your left hand to put the cut-up peaches in jars.”

  “It’ll make me feel less useless,” Aunt Bertha said.

  Mamma looked at Frankie and me. “John D.,” she said, “you go over to the Advocate and tell your father what happened. Ask him if he can spare Tom D. for the rest of the day. Frankie, you take chairs from the back porch to the yard and put them near the apple-butter kettle. You boys can peel and slice peaches on the grass instead of on the porch. That way the porch floor won’t get all sticky from juice.”

  Luckily, Papa could spare Tom from the Advocate. “Tell your mother not to worry about the noon meal,” he said to me. “I can eat over at the Palace Cafe.”

  Mamma looked a lot more cheerful when she saw Tom and heard what Papa had said. “Tell you what,” she said. “Aunt Bertha and I were rolling out piecrusts when Running Bear showed up. I’ll turn some of the fruit into pies.”

  “That’s a peach of an idea,” Tom said, and then he laughed at his own joke.

  Tom stopped laughing when he saw the four big baskets of fruit, the kettles, and the other equipment waiting. “That fruit will take all day to prepare,” he said.

  “Change your clothes first,” Mamma told him. “I can handle everything inside, at least until the paring is done. You boys peel and halve the fruit. Tom D., you use the wire basket to scald the fruit. I don’t want John D. to do that, as it’s dangerous, and I don’t want Frankie near the fire at all.”

  “All right,” Tom said as he went off to change his clothes.

  “Why do the peaches have to be scalded?” Frankie asked me as we waited for Tom to return.

  “It makes them easier to peel,” I said.

  “What’s in the kettles?” he asked, looking into the kettles we were to put our pared and cut-up peaches in.

  “Just water with salt and vinegar in it,” I told him. “The salt and vinegar keep the peaches from turning dark before Mamma puts them into fruit jars.”

  “I don’t want to eat any peaches that are canned in salt and vinegar water,” Frankie said.

  I laughed. “Mamma drains it first,” I explained. “Then after t
he peaches are in the jars, Mamma will pour hot sugar syrup over them. After that she puts them in the canner and boils them.”

  I sure was glad when Tom came back from changing his clothes and put an end to Frankie’s questions. But I didn’t like the expression in Tom’s eyes. It meant his great brain was trying to come up with a plan to satisfy his money-loving heart.

  So I was very suspicious when Tom said, “Frankie, run over to Smith’s vacant lot and tell the fellows they have an opportunity to earn some money. Tell them J.D. and I have a job for them.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Include me out. You’re going off to Boylestown in a few days, but I have to stay here in Adenville. I don’t want my friends to think I’m a swindler.”

  Tom looked indignant. “Are you saying I would do something dishonest?” he asked.

  “I’m not saying a word about you,” I told him. “I’m only saying I don’t want any part of it.”

  “All right, but you are passing up a great chance to invest some money and get out of work besides.”

  “That’s okay by me.” Every time I invested in one of Tom’s deals, his pockets had ended up full of my money.

  It wasn’t long until Frankie was back. Parley Benson, Herbie Sties, and Jimmie Peterson were with him. Parley had on his usual beat-up clothes and coonskin cap. Herbie was wearing an old faded shirt and pants with patches on the knees and the seat.

  Jimmie looked all dressed up by comparison with the other boys. He had his school pants and shirt on, since they were the only clothes that he could fit into.

  “Frankie, run inside and get an old apron from Mamma for Jimmie,” Tom said.

  “I ain’t wearing no apron!” Jimmie said.

  “Then you’re passing up a chance to earn ten cents, easy money,” Tom said.

  Now, ten cents was more money than many kids got their hands on in several weeks. Ten cents would buy two adventure magazines, or two large-size boxes of jujubes. It would buy a couple of sodas, or a good many other things at the Z.C.M.I. store. Ten cents wasn’t anything to sneer at, so I wasn’t surprised that Jimmie changed his mind. When Frankie handed him a faded old apron made of flour sacking, Jimmie put it on and sat in one of the chairs, prepared to work.

  “I’ll pay each of you fellows ten cents for helping peel and cut up these peaches,” Tom said. “But you have to work hard, and you’re not allowed to eat any.”

  When I heard Tom say that, I was glad I hadn’t agreed to be in on his deal. His great brain must have been overworked at the Advocate, because it wasn’t functioning right. Tom could get out of work by paying the fellows to do his share, but there was no way he could earn money.

  By late morning I sure was glad that Tom had hired the other boys. My back was tired from bending over the pan I was cutting peaches into. My hands were wet and sore from peach juice, and every part of me felt sticky.

  Tom sat in the shade of a nearby tree, watching the rest of us work. Every once in a while he’d take a peach from one of the baskets and eat it. The only other thing he did all morning was scald peaches and take pans of peaches into the house to Mamma.

  We didn’t see much of Mamma until she came out into the yard at about eleven o’clock.

  “My,” she said. “You boys certainly picked up some willing workers. It’s all I can do to keep even with you.”

  “I can peel peaches

  A whole big bunch.

  What I’m wondering about is

  Will I miss lunch,” Herbie Sties said.

  “I don’t think so,” Mamma answered, “not at the rate you are getting the peaches peeled. It will be a little late though. If I could, I’d fix you a meal, but I have too much work inside. How would you like some lemonade?”

  “I’d like it just fine,” Parley said. “I’m as thirsty as all get out.”

  “Me too,” Jimmie agreed.

  “I’ll send some out in a few minutes,” Mamma told us.

  When Mamma said she’d send out the lemonade, I expected Aunt Bertha to bring it. I was really surprised when Polly Reagan came out of our kitchen door ten minutes later, carrying a tray holding a large pitcher of lemonade and six glasses.

  When he saw her, Tom jumped up from where he was lounging under the tree and ran to take the tray from her hands.

  I closed my eyes, plumb full of embarrassment. Then I cracked the lids and looked sideways at Jimmie, wondering if he’d noticed Tom had gone soft in the brain. But Jimmie was too busy trying to roll up his apron, as if to make it disappear.

  As for me, I have to admit that a pitcher of lemonade makes a girl seem a lot more attractive. Maybe fancy food and drink is another way girls put spells on boys, I thought as I accepted a glass from Polly.

  “I didn’t know you were helping Mamma,” Tom said, looking at the blue-and-white-striped apron Polly had on over her blue everyday dress.

  “My mother was in the Z.C.M.I. store when your aunt Bertha fell on the step,” Polly said. “She knew your mother would need extra help today, so she sent me on over.” Then Polly frowned and looked at Tom.

  “Aren’t you working?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Tom said. “I am scalding the peaches and doing that kind of work. I’m paying Parley, Herbie, and Jimmie ten cents each to help too.”

  Tom had a prideful tone in his voice when he spoke of paying the other boys, as if he was somebody very important in Adenville, like the mayor.

  Polly looked at him thoughtfully. “I’ll have to tell my papa about that tonight,” she said. “Papa always says, ‘That Tom D. Fitzgerald could talk the buffalo down off a nickel.’”

  “By jingo!” Parley shouted, and he began to laugh. The rest of the boys laughed too.

  Tom managed to come up with a chuckle or two, but after Polly went back into the house, he was awful quiet. He didn’t pick up a paring knife or anything, but he didn’t look as if he were having as good a time lounging under the tree, not even with a glass of cool lemonade in his hand.

  He did perk up about a half hour later when the smell of peach pie began to drift our way from the kitchen. He picked up his head, took a long sniff, rubbed his belly, and said, “Smell that, J.D. Mamma must be cooking the peach pies she promised me.”

  After Tom scalded the last of the peaches and gave them to us to peel and cut, he said, “I’ll be back in a minute, fellows. I just want to check the progress of those pies.”

  “Bring your dimes with you,” Parley said. “We’re about done here.”

  When Tom returned, he had his dimes with him. “Here you are,” he said, putting a dime into each boy’s sticky palm. “Just as I promised. Ten cents for the morning’s work. Nobody can ever say Tom D. swindled his friends.”

  We all knew that wasn’t true, because in the past, before he was forced to reform, Tom D. had swindled every kid in town and a good number of adults too.

  “It’s too bad,

  But I have a hunch

  That for ten cents

  I’ve missed my lunch,” Herbie said sadly, eyeing the coin on his palm.

  “Umm, smell those pies,” Tom said. “Mamma made ten of them. She sent two home with Polly to thank her for her work, but the rest are mine.”

  “How do you figure that, T.D.?” I asked, thinking that Mamma had baked the pies for all of our family.

  “Why, Chief Rising Sun sent those peaches to his friend, Fitzgerald,” Tom said. “They must have been for me because I saved his nephew, Running Bear, from going to prison and also was responsible for freeing the two Paiute braves already there. So the peaches belong to me.”

  “Sure smell good,” Parley said, tugging at his coonskin cap with one hand. Since his mother had died when Parley was very young, Parley probably hadn’t tasted a fresh peach pie in years.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Tom said. “I’ll sell you a small piece of pie for five c
ents. If you want a big piece, say one-fourth of a pie, it’ll be ten cents.”

  It didn’t take Herbie two seconds to give up his dime. In another couple of seconds, Parley and Frankie handed over theirs.

  “J.D.?” Tom said. “Frankie?”

  “You didn’t pay us for working,” I told him.

  “Way I figure it, you should pay me,” Tom said. “If I hadn’t hired Parley, Jimmie, and Herbie to help, you’d be knee-deep in peaches all afternoon.”

  I didn’t answer, because what Tom said did make sense.

  “You each give me ten cents,” Tom said, “and I’ll throw in a piece of pie for free.”

  “All right,” I agreed.

  “Frankie?”

  “I guess so,” Frankie said.

  “J.D., come on in the house to get your and Frankie’s money,” Tom said. “Then you can help me carry out the pie for the fellows.”

  When we arrived in the kitchen, eight fresh pies were cooling on the kitchen table. Lined up along the counter were jars and jars of canned peaches, and there were more ready to go into the two canners Mamma had boiling on top of the range. The air was thick and hot with steam from the boiling kettles.

  “Can the pies be cut yet?” Tom asked.

  “They’ll be better in another hour or two,” Mamma said, “but I reckon you can cut up a few for you boys.”

  “J.D. will help me carry them out,” Tom said.

  As I went to our bedroom to get dimes for Frankie and me, I began to wonder if Mamma had any idea Tom was selling pieces of pie to the fellows. I decided she probably didn’t, but I was not about to tell her. I am no snitch, and besides, I’d learned a long time ago that it doesn’t pay for me to try to outwit Tom.

  Tom and I carried pie out to the other boys, then I went back for our pieces. In a short time, all that could be heard was the sound of eating and contented little noises coming from Herbie. He ate all of his pie before anyone else, then licked the plate clean.