JOE HELPS THE MANAGER
“Well now, I’m real sorry,” said Mrs. Holdney when, a little later, Joe dismounted at her door, and held out the letter for her husband. “Rufus isn’t home. You can leave the letter for him, though.”
“No, I have to have an answer,” replied Joe. “I think perhaps I’d better wait.”
“Well, maybe you had, though I don’t know when Rufus will be back. Is it anything of importance?”
“I guess it must be,” spoke the lad, for, though he did not know the contents of his father’s letter, he reasoned that it would be on no unimportant errand that he would be sent to Moorville.
“Hum,” mused Mrs. Holdney. “Well, if you want to wait all right, though as I said I don’t know when my husband will be back.”
“Do you know where he’s gone? Could I go after him?” asked Joe eagerly. He was anxious to deliver the letter, get an answer, and return home before dark.
“Well, now, I never thought of that!” exclaimed Mrs. Holdney. “Of course you might do that. Rufus has gone down town, and most likely you’ll find him in the hardware store of Mr. Jackson. He said he had some business to transact with him, and he’ll likely be there for some time.”
“Then I’ll ride down there on my wheel. I guess I can find the place. Is it on the main street?”
“Yes, turn off this road when you get to the big granite horse-drinking trough and swing in to your right. Then turn to your left when you get to the post-office and that’s Main Street. Mr. Jackson’s store is about a block in.”
The lad repeated the woman’s directions over in his mind as he rode along, and he had no difficulty in picking out the hardware store. He was wondering how he would know Mr. Holdney, but concluded that one of the clerks could point him out.
“Yes, Mr. Holdney is here,” said a man behind the counter to whom Joe applied. “He’s in the office with Mr. Jackson.”
“I wonder if I could send a letter in to him,” ventured the lad, for he did not want to wait any longer than he had to.
“I’m afraid not,” answered the clerk. “Mr. Jackson is very strict about being disturbed when he’s talking business.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to wait,” said Joe with a sigh. “I wonder if he’ll be in there long?”
“I wouldn’t want to say for sure,” spoke the clerk, leaning over the counter in a confidential manner and speaking in a whisper. “I wouldn’t even dare to guess,” he went on with a look toward the private office whence came the murmur of voices, “but I’ll venture to state that it will be some time. Mr. Jackson never does anything in a hurry.”
“Does Mr. Holdney?”
“Yes, he’s just the opposite. He’s as quick as a steel trap. Too quick, that’s the trouble. He and Mr. Jackson are good friends, but when Mr. Holdney springs something sudden on my boss, why Mr. Jackson is slower than ever, thinking it over. I guess you’ll have to wait some time. Is there anything you’d like to buy?”
“No, I think not,” said Joe with a smile, and then he sat down on one of the stools near the counter while the clerk went off to wait on a customer. The lad was getting impatient after nearly an hour had passed and there was no sign of Mr. Holdney coming out. The murmur of voices continued to come from the private office—one voice quick and snappy, and the other slow and drawling—an indication of the character of the two men.
“I wish they’d hurry!” thought Joe. He began to pace back and forth the length of the store, and he was just thinking he would have to ride home in the darkness, and was wondering whether there was oil in his bicycle lamp, when the door of the private office opened and two men came out.
“Thank goodness!” exclaimed Joe to himself. The men were still talking, but Joe concluded that their business was about over so he chanced going up to them.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but I have a letter for Mr. Holdney. It’s from my father, Mr. Matson.”
“Eh, what’s—that—son?” asked the older of the two men, in drawling tones.
“It’s for me. I’m Mr. Holdney!” exclaimed the other quickly. “From Mr. Matson, eh? Well tell him I can’t help him any more. I haven’t any spare—but wait a minute, I’ll write my answer.”
“Hadn’t—you—better—read—the—letter—first,” mildly and slowly suggested Mr. Jackson.
“Humph! I know what it is all right!” exclaimed the other quickly. “But I’ll read it. Let’s have it!” He almost snapped it from the lad’s hand and Joe wondered what could be the business relations between his father and this man.
With a flourish and a quick motion Mr. Holdney tore open the envelope and read the letter almost at a glance.
“Hum!” he exclaimed. “Just as I expected. No, I’m done with that business. I can’t do any more. You may tell your father—hold on, though, I’ll write it,” and, whipping out a lead pencil Mr. Holdney scribbled something on the back of Mr. Matson’s note.
“So you’re John Matson’s son; eh?” he asked of Joe.
“Yes, sir.”
“Hum! Go to school?”
“Yes, the Riverside High.”
“Hum! Ever invent anything?”
“No, not yet,” answered Joe with a smile.
“That’s right—never do it. It’s a poor business. Play ball?”
“I did in Bentville where we lived, but I haven’t had a chance here yet.”
“Hum! Yes, Bentville. That’s where I met your father. Here’s the answer. There you are. Now don’t lose it,” and quickly handing the communication to Joe, Mr. Holdney turned and resumed his talk with the hardware merchant.
Joe was a little dazed by the quickness of it all, and there were many questions running through his mind. Somehow the manner of Mr. Holdney—the message he had started to ask Joe to deliver by word of mouth, his apparent refusal of something Mr. Matson had evidently asked him to do—all made Joe vaguely uneasy. He connected it with his father’s nervousness the night before and with his mother’s anxiety.
“But there’s no use worrying until I have to,” concluded Joe with a boy’s philosophy as he left the hardware store, and truth to tell, he was thinking more of his chances of going to boarding school in the fall perhaps, and whether or not he would get an opportunity to play ball, than he was of any possible trouble.
On leaving the hardware store Joe was surprised to find it growing dusk. Gathering clouds added to the gloom and he made up his mind that the last part of his homeward journey would be made in darkness.
“Guess I’ll see if I have any oil in the lamp,” he remarked as he was about to mount his wheel. “If I haven’t I can get some here.” But he found, on shaking the lantern, that it was filled enough to carry him to Riverside, and he was soon pedaling along that country road.
The clouds continued to gather, and as the journey back was partly up hill, and as the bent pedal did not permit of fast riding, Joe soon found it necessary to alight and set the lamp aglow.
He was riding on, looking carefully ahead of him, to avoid stones and ruts that the gleam of light revealed, when, as he came to rather a lonely spot on the road, he heard, just ahead of him, a commotion.
There was a sound of carriage wheels scraping on the iron body guards, the tramping of a horse’s feet, and then a voice called out:
“Whoa now! Stand still, can’t you, until I see what’s the matter? Whoa! Something’s broken, that’s evident, worse luck! And I’m two miles from nowhere. Whoa, now!”
“Where have I heard that voice before?” mused Joe as he rode more slowly so as not to have another collision in the darkness.
He could hear some one jump to the ground and then the restless horse quieted down under the soothing words of the driver.
“Yes, it’s broken all right,” the voice went on. “And how in the mischief am I going to mend it? Whoa, now!”
Then Joe rode up, and in the glow of his light he saw Darrell Blackney, the manager of the Silver Stars, who was standing beside a carriage one side of the shafts of which hung down from the axle. The bolt had evidently broken.
“What’s the matter?” asked Joe, dismounting.
“Who’s that?” quickly asked Darrell.
“I’m Joe Matson,” was the answer. “I know you. I’m in the junior high class.”
“Oh, yes. Matson, I think I heard Tom Davis speak of you. Well, I’ve had an accident. I was out driving when all at once one side of the shafts fell down. It’s a bad break I’m afraid; bolt sheared off.”
“It’s a wonder your horse didn’t run away.”
“Oh, Prince is pretty steady; aren’t you Prince old fellow?” and Darrell patted the animal’s nose. “But what the mischief am I to do? It’s too far to go to the next town and leave Prince here, and I can’t ride him, for he isn’t used to it and might throw me off.”
“Can I help you?” asked Joe. “I might ride to the nearest place and get a bolt, if you told me what kind.”
“All the places would be closed by this time I guess,” was the rueful answer. “Much obliged to you just the same. I certainly am in a pickle! Next time I go out driving I’ll bring part of a hardware store along.”
“What sort of a bolt is it?” asked Joe.
“Oh, just an ordinary carriage one, flat headed. Bring your light here, if you don’t mind, and I’ll take a look at it. I could only tell it was broken by feeling in the dark.”
In the glow of the bicycle lamp it could be seen that the bolt had broken squarely in two in the middle, and could not be used again. But at the sight of it, as Darrell held the two parts in his hand, Joe uttered an exclamation.
“What’s the matter?” asked the manager of the Silver Stars.
“I think I have the very thing!” said Joe quickly. “I’ve got some spare bolts in my tool bag. They may not be the same size, but they’ll hold the shaft in until you get home I think. I’ll take a look.”
“Good for you!” cried Darrell. “Most anything will do in a pinch. Even a piece of wire, but I can’t find any along the road in the dark. I hope you have something,” and while Joe opened his tool bag Darrell patted the somewhat restive horse.