The Fourth 'R' (1959)

by George O. Smith

  He laughed roughly. “All right, Jimmy,” he said. “You lift it and you can have it.”

  Jimmy struggled with the typewriter, and succeeded only because it was a new one made of the titanium-magnesium-aluminum alloys. It hung between his little knees, almost—but not quite—touching the ground.

  “You have it,” said Jake. He lifted it lightly and carried it into the boy’s little bedroom.

  Jimmy started after dinner. He picked out the letters with the same painful search he’d used in typing his getaway letter. He made the same mistakes he’d made before. It had taken him almost an hour and nearly fifty sheets of paper to compose that first note without an error; that was no way to run a railroad; now Jimmy was determined to learn the proper operation of this machine. But finally the jagged tack-tack—pause—tack-tack got on Jake’s nerves.

  Jake came in angrily. “You’re wasting paper,” he snapped. He eyed Jimmy thoughtfully. “How come with your education you don’t know how to type?”

  “My father wouldn’t let me.”

  “Seems your father wouldn’t let you do anything.”

  “He said that I couldn’t learn until I was old enough to learn properly. He said I must not get into the habit of using the hunt-and-peck system, or I’d never get out of it.”

  “So what are you doing now?”

  “My father is dead.”

  “And anything he said before doesn’t count any more?”

  “He promised me that he’d start teaching me as soon as my hands were big enough,” said Jimmy soberly. “But he isn’t here any more. So I’ve got to learn my own way.”

  Jake reflected. Jimmy was a superior spotter. He was also a potential danger; the other kids played it as a game and didn’t really realize what they were doing. This one knew precisely what he was doing, knew that it was wrong, and had the lucidity of speech to explain in full detail. It was a good idea to keep him content.

  “If you’ll stop that tap-tapping for tonight,” promised Jake, “I’ll get you a book tomorrow. Is it a deal?”

  “You will?”

  “I will if you’ll follow it.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “And,” said Jake, pushing his advantage, “you’ll do it with the door closed so’s I can hear this TV set.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Jake kept his word.

  On the following afternoon, not only was Jimmy presented with one of the standard learn-it-yourself books on touch-typing, but Jake also contrived a sturdy desk out of one old packing case and a miniature chair out of another. Both articles of home-brewed furniture Jake insisted upon having painted before he permitted them inside his odd dwelling, and that delayed Jimmy one more day.

  But it was only one more day; and then a new era of experience began for Jimmy.

  It would be nice to report that he went at it with determination, self-discipline, and system, following instructions to the letter and emerging a first-rate typist.

  Sorry. Jimmy hated every minute of it. He galled at the pages and pages of juj juj juj frf frf frf. He cried with frustration because he could not perform the simple exercise to perfection. He skipped through the book so close to complete failure that he hurled it across the room, and cried in anger because he had not the strength to throw the typewriter after it. Throw the machine? He had not the strength in his pinky to press the carriage-shift key!

  Part of his difficulty was the size of his hands, of course. But most of his trouble lay deep-seated in his recollection of his parents’ fabulous machine. It would have made a typist of him in a single half-hour session, or so he thought.

  He had yet to learn about the vast gulf that lies between theory and practice.

  It took Jimmy several weeks of aimless fiddling before he realized that there was no easy short-cut. Then he went back to the juj juj juj frf frf frf routine and hated it just as much, but went on.

  He invented a kind of home-study “hooky” to break the monotony. He would run off a couple of pages of regular exercise, and then turn back to the hunt-and-peck system of typing to work on a story. He took a furtive glee in this; he felt that he was getting away with something. In mid-July, Jake caught him at it.

  “What’s going on?” demanded Jake, waving the pages of manuscript copy.

  “Typing,” said Jimmy.

  Jake picked up the typing guidebook and waved it under Jimmy’s nose. “Show me where it says you gotta type anything like, ‘Captain Brandon struggled against his chains when he heard Lady Hamilton scream. The pirate’s evil laugh rang through the ship. “Curse you—” ’ ”

  Jake snorted.

  “But—” said Jimmy faintly.

  “But nothing!” snapped Jake. “Stop the drivel and learn that thing! You think I let you keep the machine just to play games? We gotta find a way to make it pay off. Learn it good!”

  He stamped out, taking the manuscript with him. From that moment on, Jimmy’s furtive career as an author went on only when Jake was either out for the evening or entertaining. In any case, he did not bother Jimmy further, evidently content to wait until Jimmy had “learned it good” before putting this new accomplishment to use. Nor did Jimmy bother him. It was a satisfactory arrangement for the time being. Jimmy hid his “work” under a pile of raw paper and completed it in late August. Then, with the brash assurance of youth, he packed and mailed his first finished manuscript to the editor of Boy’s Magazine.

  His typing progressed more satisfactorily than he realized, even though he was still running off page after page of repetitious exercise, leavened now and then by a page of idiotic sentences the letters of which were restricted to the center of the typewriter keyboard. The practice, even the hunt-and-peck relaxation from discipline, exercised the small muscles. Increased strength brought increased accuracy.

  September rolled in, the streets emptied of school-aged children and the out-of-state car licenses diminished to a trickle. With the end of the carefree vacation days went the careless motorist.

  Jake, whose motives were no more altruistic than his intentions were legal, began to look for a means of disposing of Jimmy Holden at the greatest profit to himself. Jake stalled only because he hoped that the reward might be stepped up.

  But it was Jimmy’s own operations that closed this chapter of his life.

  * * *

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jimmy had less scout work to do and no school to attend; he was too small to help in the sorting of car parts and too valuable to be tossed out. He was in the way.

  So he was in Jake’s office when the mail came. He brought the bundle to Jake’s desk and sat on a box, sorting the circulars and catalogs from the first class. Halfway down the pile was a long envelope addressed to Jimmy James.

  He dropped the rest with a little yelp. Jake eyed him quickly and snatched the letter out of Jimmy’s hands.

  “Hey! That’s mine!” said Jimmy. Jake shoved him away.

  “Who’s writing you?” demanded Jake.

  “It’s mine!” cried Jimmy.

  “Shut up!” snapped Jake, unfolding the letter. “I read all the mail that comes here first.”

  “But—”

  “Shut your mouth and your teeth’ll stay in,” said Jake flatly. He separated a green slip from the letter and held the two covered while he read. “Well, well,” he said. “Our little Shakespeare!” With a disdainful grunt Jake tossed the letter to Jimmy.

  Eagerly, Jimmy took the letter and read:

  Dear Mr. James:

  We regret the unconscionable length of time between your submission and this reply. However, the fact that this reply is favorable may be its own apology. We are enclosing a check for $20.00 with the following explanation: Our policy is to reject all work written in dialect. At the best we request the author to rewrite the piece in proper English and frame his effect by other means. Your little story is not dialect, nor is it bad literarily, the framework’s being (as it is) a fairly good example of a small boy’s relating in the fir
st person one of his adventures, using for the first time his father’s typewriter. But you went too far. I doubt that even a five-year-old would actually make as many typographical errors.

  However, we found the idea amusing, therefore our payment. One of our editors will work your manuscript into less-erratic typescript for eventual publication.

  Please continue to think of us in the future, but don’t corn up your script with so many studied blunders.

  Sincerely,

  Joseph Brandon, editor,

  Boy’s Magazine.

  “Gee,” breathed Jimmy, “a check!”

  Jake laughed roughly. “Shakespeare,” he roared. “Don’t corn up your stuff! You put too many errors in! Wow!”

  Jimmy’s eyes began to burn. He had no defense against this sarcasm. He wanted praise for having accomplished something, instead of raucous laughter.

  “I wrote it,” he said lamely.

  “Oh, go away!” roared Jake.

  Jimmy reached for the check.

  “Scram,” said Jake, shutting his laughter off instantly.

  “It’s mine!” cried Jimmy.

  Jake paused, then laughed again. “Okay, smart kid. Take it and spend it!” He handed the check to Jimmy Holden.

  Jimmy took it quickly and left.

  He wanted to eye it happily, to gloat over it, to turn it over and over and to read it again and again; but he wanted to do it in private.

  He took it with him to the nearest bank, feeling its folded bulk and running a fingernail along the serrated edge.

  He re-read it in the bank, then went to a teller’s window. “Can you cash this, please?” he asked.

  The teller turned it over. “It isn’t endorsed.”

  “I can’t reach the desk to sign it,” complained Jimmy.

  “Have you an account here?” asked the teller politely.

  “Well, no sir.”

  “Any identification?”

  “No—no sir,” said Jimmy thoughtfully. Not a shred of anything did he have to show who he was under either name.

  “Who is this Jimmy James?” asked the teller.

  “Me. I am.”

  The teller smiled. “And you wrote a short story that sold to Boy’s Magazine?” he asked with a lifted eyebrow. “That’s pretty good for a little guy like you.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The teller looked over Jimmy’s head; Jimmy turned to look up at one of the bank’s policemen. “Tom, what do you make of this?”

  The policeman shrugged. He stooped down to Jimmy’s level. “Where did you get this check, young fellow?” he asked gently.

  “It came in the mail this morning.”

  “You’re Jimmy James?”

  “Yes sir.” Jimmy Holden had been called that for more than half a year; his assent was automatic.

  “How old are you, young man?” asked the policeman kindly.

  “Five and a half.”

  “Isn’t that a bit young to be writing stories?”

  Jimmy bit his lip. “I wrote it, though.”

  The policeman looked up at the teller with a wink. “He can tell a good yarn,” chuckled the policeman. “Shouldn’t wonder if he could write one.”

  The teller laughed and Jimmy’s eyes burned again. “It’s mine,” he insisted.

  “If it’s yours,” said the policeman quietly, “we can settle it fast enough. Do your folks have an account here?”

  “No sir.”

  “Hmmm. That makes it tough.”

  Brightly, Jimmy asked, “Can I open an account here?”

  “Why, sure you can,” said the policeman. “All you have to do is to bring your parents in.”

  “But I want the money,” wailed Jimmy.

  “Jimmy James,” explained the policeman with a slight frown to the teller, “we can’t cash a check without positive identification. Do you know what positive identification means?”

  “Yes sir. It means that you’ve got to be sure that this is me.”

  “Right! Now, those are the rules. Now, of course, you don’t look like the sort of young man who would tell a lie. I’ll even bet your real name is Jimmy James, Jr. But you see, we have no proof, and our boss will be awful mad at us if we break the rules and cash this check without following the rules. The rules, Jimmy James, aren’t to delay nice, honest people, but to stop people from making mistakes. Mistakes such as taking a little letter out of their father’s mailbox. If we cashed that check, then it couldn’t be put back in father’s mailbox without anybody knowing about it. And that would be real bad.”

  “But it’s mine!”

  “Sonny, if that’s yours, all you have to do is to have your folks come in and say so. Then we’ll open an account for you.”

  “Yes sir,” said Jimmy in a voice that was thick with tears of frustration close to the surface. He turned away and left.

  Jake was still in the outside office of the Yard when Jimmy returned. The boy was crestfallen, frustrated, unhappy, and would not have returned at all if there had been another place where he was welcome. He expected ridicule from Jake, but Jake smiled.

  “No luck, kid?”

  Jimmy just shook his head.

  “Checks are tough, Jimmy. Give up, now?”

  “No!”

  “No? What then?”

  “I can write a letter and sign it,” said Jimmy, explaining how he had outfoxed the ticket seller.

  “Won’t work with checks, Jimmy. For me now, if I was to be polite and dressed right they might cash a twenty if I showed up with my social security card, driver’s license, identification card with photograph sealed in, and all that junk. But a kid hasn’t got a chance. Look, Jimmy, I’m sorry for this morning. Tomorrow morning we’ll go over to my bank and I’ll have them cash it for you. It’s yours. You earned it and you keep it. Okay? Are we friends again?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Gravely they shook hands. “Watch the place, kid,” said Jake. “I got to make a phone call.”

  In the morning, Jake dressed for business and insisted that Jimmy put on his best to make a good impression. After breakfast, they set out. Jake parked in front of a granite building.

  “This isn’t any bank,” objected Jimmy. “This is a police station.”

  “Sure,” responded Jake. “Here’s where we get you an identification card. Don’t you know?”

  “Okay,” said Jimmy dubiously.

  Inside the station there were a number of men in uniform and in plain clothing. Jake strode forward, holding Jimmy by one small hand. They approached the sergeant’s desk and Jake lifted Jimmy up and seated him on one edge of the desk with his feet dangling.

  The sergeant looked at them with interest but without surprise.

  “Sergeant,” said Jake, “this is Jimmy James—as he calls himself when he’s writing stories. Otherwise he is James Quincy Holden.”

  Jimmy went cold all over.

  Jake backed through the circle that was closing in; the hole he made was filled by Paul Brennan.

  It was not the first betrayal in Jimmy James’s young life, but it was totally unexpected. He didn’t know that the policeman from the bank had worried Jake; he didn’t know that Jake had known all along who he was; he didn’t know how fast Brennan had moved after the phone call from Jake. But his young mind leaped past the unknown facts to reach a certain, and correct, conclusion.

  He had been sold out.

  “Jimmy, Jimmy,” came the old, pleading voice. “Why did you run away? Where have you been?”

  Brennan stepped forward and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Without a shadow of doubt,” he said formally, “this is James Quincy Holden. I so identify him. And with no more ado, I hand you the reward.” He reached into his inside pocket and drew out an envelope, handing it to Jake. “I have never parted with one thousand dollars so happily in my life.”

  Jimmy watched, unable to move. Brennan was busy and cheerful, the model of the man whose long-lost ward has been returned to him.

&nb
sp; “So, James, shall we go quietly or shall we have a scene?”

  Trapped and sullen, Jimmy Holden said nothing. The officers helped him down from the desk. He did not move. Brennan took him by a hand that was as limp as wet cloth. Brennan started for the door. The arm lifted until the link was taut; then, with slow, dragging steps, James Quincy Holden started toward home.

  Brennan said, “You understand me, don’t you, Jimmy?”

  “You want my father’s machine.”

  “Only to help you, Jimmy. Can’t you believe that?”

  “No.”

  Brennan drove his car with ease. A soft smile lurked around his lips. He went on, “You know what your father’s machine will do for you, don’t you, Jimmy?”

  “Yes.”

  “But have you ever attended school?”

  “No.” But Jimmy remembered the long hours and hours of study and practice before he became proficient with his typewriter. For a moment he felt close to tears. It had been the only possession he truly owned, now it was gone. And with it was gone the author’s first check. The thrill of that first check is far greater than Graduation or the First Job. It is approximately equal to the flush of pride that comes when the author’s story hits print with his NAME appended.

  But Jimmy’s typewriter was gone, and his check was gone. Without a doubt the check would turn up cashed—through the operations of Jake Caslow.

  Brennan’s voice cut into his thoughts. “You will attend school, Jimmy. You’ll have to.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, now look, Jimmy. There are laws that say you must attend school. The only way those laws can be avoided is to make an appeal to the law itself, and have your legal guardian—myself—ask for the privilege of tutoring you at home. Well, I won’t do it.”

  He drove for a moment, thinking. “So you’re going to attend school,” he said, “and while you’re there you’re going to be careful not to disclose by any act or inference that you already know everything they can teach you. Otherwise they will ask some embarrassing questions. And the first thing that happens to you is that you will be put in a much harder place to escape from than our home, Jimmy. Do you understand?”