“You don’t seem to care a whole lot for Mr. Brent, Dickums.”
“I don’t,” responded Dick emphatically. “We wouldn’t be like we are now—as poor as church mice—if father hadn’t got mixed up with Mr. Brent in one of his real-estate schemes. I’m not saying that Mr. Brent was dishonest, Gordie, but he was too sharp for dad, and dad got let in for a pile of money.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Gordon. “You never told me, did you?”
“No. It was a long time ago, when I was just a kid. Dad moved here from Norwalk when I was three years old. He had quite a little money—thirteen or fourteen thousand dollars it was—and Mr. Brent got him to invest it in that South-west Division, as they called it. They got hold of a pile of land down the river toward the Point. You know; where the picnic grove is. They were going to sell it for factory sites and there was a railway coming through to connect with the Shore Line, and everything was fine—on paper. But the bottom fell out of the scheme; the factories didn’t come, and the railroad decided not to build; and the mortgages were foreclosed; and after it was all over Mr. Brent had the whole thing and dad had nothing! And it was all legal and above-board, too! And that’s why I’ve never had much use for Jonathan Brent; nor Morris, either, although Morris has never done anything to me.”
“You and he seem to be pretty good friends,” said Gordon.
“I know. He—— Well, he seems to like me pretty well, and you can’t be anything but decent to a fellow in that case, can you? I suppose if Jonathan Brent wasn’t his father I’d like him well enough. Well, I’ll stop in and see this Billings chap to-morrow. It’s less trouble than writing a letter, I guess. Wednesday the sixteenth, on their own grounds, at—what time?”
“Three o’clock, I suppose,” answered Gordon. “That will give us plenty of time to get over on the two-o’clock car and warm up a bit before the game. You might tell him about our field, and say that if they want a return game we’ll play it over here if we can get the use of the field. By the way, that grandstand at the field belongs to the school. We’ll have to move that if we get out. I wish Mr. Brent would be satisfied with all the money he’s got and not go and take our field away from us.”
“So do I. What we want to do, though, is to watch out and be sure he doesn’t swipe the grandstand too!”
“Well, you are rabid!” laughed Gordon. “Still, I don’t know that I blame you. I never knew that about your father, Dickums.”
“Well, don’t repeat it, please. It’s all done with now, and there’s no use talking about it. I don’t—very often. Only sometimes—— Well, I get sort of hot under the collar when I think of all the money Jonathan Brent has and how awfully hard we have to scrabble to get along. Good-bye, Mr. Captain.”