CHAPTER IV
RANDY AT HOME
All unmindful of the trouble that had already come to the Bartletts, and of the trouble Bob Bangs was hatching out for him, Randy divided the mess of fish with Jack and hurried home.
"See what a fine mess I've got, mother!" he cried, as he entered the kitchen, where his mother had just started to prepare the evening meal. "Aren't they real beauties?"
"They are, Randy," answered Mrs. Thompson, and smiled brightly. "Did Jack do as well?"
"Almost as well as I did, and we divided evenly, because, you see, he furnished the boat. And, mother, I've found out where we can get a fine lot of blackberries. If you want me to, I'll go for them to-morrow."
"I wish you would, Randy. Your father loves blackberry pie and blackberry pudding."
"And so do I."
"I've got time to fry some of these fish for supper," went on Mrs. Thompson. "And we can have some more to-morrow, too. But I don't think we can use them all."
"I was thinking we might give Mrs. Gilligan a couple."
"That will be very nice. If you will, take them over at once."
Mrs. Gilligan was a poor Irishwoman who took in washing and ironing for a living. She was alone in the world and often had a struggle to make both ends meet.
"Just to look at that now!" she cried, as Randy held up the fish. "Sure an' ye air a great fisher b'y, Randy, so ye air!"
"I got so many I thought I'd bring you a couple," said our hero.
"Now that's rale kind of ye," answered Mrs. Gilligan, as she dried her hands and took the fish. "Just loike my Pat used to catch afore he was kilt on the railroad."
"I caught them this afternoon, so you can be sure they are fresh."
"I'm much obliged to ye, I am indade," said Mrs. Gilligan. She drew a long breath. "Sure an' the Lord is good to us after all. I was just afther thinkin' I had nothin' but throuble, whin in comes these iligant fish."
"Is something wrong?" asked Randy, curiously.
"It's not a great dale, yet it's enough fer a poor woman loike me. It's Mrs. Bangs' wash, so it is. Nothin' suits that lady, an' she always wants to pay less than she agreed."
"You mean Bob Bangs' mother?"
"Th' same, Randy. Oh, they are a hard-hearted family, so they are!"
"I believe you. And yet Mr. Bangs is rich."
"It's little enough I see of his money," sighed Mrs. Gilligan. "Although I do me besht wid the washin' an' ironin', so I do!"
"It's a wonder Mrs. Bangs don't make the servant do the washing and ironing."
"She did make the other wan do that same. But the new one can't iron an' won't try, so I have the work, an' the girrul gits less wages," answered the Irishwoman.
When Randy returned home he found supper almost ready. The appetizing odor of frying fish filled the air. A few minutes later Mr. Thompson came in.
Louis Thompson was a man a little past middle age, tall and thin and not unlike Randy in the general appearance of his face. He was not a strong man, and the winter before had been laid up with a severe attack of rheumatism.
"That smells good," he said, with a smile, as he kissed his wife. "I like fish."
"Randy just caught them."
"Good enough."
"You look tired, Louis," went on Mrs. Thompson. "Was the work extra hard?"
"Not much harder than usual, Lucy, but I was working on a cellar partition and it was very damp. It brought back a bit of the rheumatism."
"That is too bad."
"Can't the boss give you something else to do—something where it isn't damp?" questioned Randy.
"I have asked him about it," answered his father. "But just at present there is nothing else in sight."
"You must take care, Louis," said Mrs. Thompson. "It will not do to risk having the rheumatism come back."
"I wish I could get something to do," said Randy, while the evening meal was in progress. "I might earn some money and it would help. But there doesn't seem to be any kind of an opening in Riverport."
"Times are rather dull," answered Mr. Thompson. "And I am afraid they will be worse before they are better."
On the following day Randy went out after blackberries. Jack went with him and the boys went up the stream in the latter's boat.
"If I can get a good mess mother is going to preserve some," said Randy.
"I like blackberry jam," answered his friend.
The two boys had brought their lunch with them, intending to remain out all day. By noon they had picked twelve quarts of berries and then sat down by the river side to eat their lunch.
"What do you say to a swim?" remarked Jack, after the meal was over.
"Just the thing!" cried our hero. "But we mustn't remain in longer than half an hour. I want to pick more berries."
They were soon in the water, which was deliciously cool and refreshing. They dove and splashed around to their hearts' content and raced from one bank to the other and back. Randy won the race by several seconds.
"I declare, Randy, you are a regular water rat!" declared Jack. "I never saw a better swimmer."
"Well, I do love the water, that is certain," answered Randy.
"And you row such a good stroke, too."
"That's because I love boats."
The half-hour at an end, our hero leaped ashore and began to don his garments, and Jack did the same. They were just finishing their toilet when a rowboat came into view, containing Bob Bangs and several other of the loud boys of Riverport.
"There is Bob Bangs again," whispered Randy.
"We'll have to watch out that he doesn't try to rob us of our berries," whispered Jack, significantly.
"Humph! Up here again, eh?" remarked the big youth, resting on his oars.
"We are," answered Randy. "I think we can come, if we please."
"Certainly—for all I care," growled Bob.
"We are picking berries, and we intend to watch them, too," put in Randy, loudly.
At this pointed remark Bob Bangs colored slightly.
"I should think you'd pick your company, Jack Bartlett," he said, coarsely.
"I do. That is why I am not with you."
"Humph!"
"I consider myself just as good as you, Bob Bangs," said Randy, warmly. "I may not be as rich, but I never tried to steal a mess of fish from anybody."
"You shut up!" roared the big boy. And then he started to row away.
"You'll not get a chance to rob us of these berries," called out Jack after him.
"What do they mean about robbing somebody of fish?" asked one of Bob's companions.
"Oh, that was only a joke," answered the rich youth. "Just wait—I'll fix them for it!"
As soon as Bangs and his cronies had disappeared Randy and Jack went back to their berry picking. They worked steadily until five o'clock in the afternoon, and by that time had a great number of quarts to their credit.
"The folks at home will be pleased," said Jack. "My mother loves fresh berries. She says they are much better than those which are several days in the market."
"And she is right."
The boys had brought along several large and small kettles, and had left three of these down near the boat, filled with the fruit. Each walked to the shore with a kettle full of berries in his hand.
"Well, I never!" cried Jack, in dismay.
"Bob Bangs again!" murmured Randy. "Oh, don't I just wish I had him here. I'd pummel him good!"
There was good cause for our hero's anger. On the rocks lay the overturned berry kettles, the berries scattered in all directions and many of them crushed under foot.
"And look at the boat!" gasped Jack, turning to inspect the craft.
The rowboat was partly filled with water and on the seats and in the bottom a quantity of mud had been thrown. The oars were sticking in a mud bank close by.
"Does she leak?" asked our hero, with concern.
"I'll have to find out."
It was soon discovered that the craft was intact, and then they set to work to clean up the muss. This was no easy job, and the boys perspired freely, for the day was a warm one. Then Randy looked over the scattered berries.
"About one-third of them are fit to take along," he said. "The others are crushed and dirty."
"I'll tell you what I am going to do," said Jack, stoutly. "I am going to make Bob Bangs pay for dirtying my boat, and he can pay for the lost berries, too."
"But how can we prove he is guilty?"
"We'll make him own up to it. Nobody else would play such a mean trick."
The two boys were in no happy frame of mind as they rowed back to Riverport. They suspected that Bob Bangs would keep out of their sight, but just as they were landing they caught sight of him peering at them from behind a dock building.
"There he is!" cried Jack. "After him, Randy!"
"Right you are!" answered our hero, and ran after Bob Bangs with might and main. Randy was a good sprinter and although the rich youth tried to get away he was soon brought to a halt.
"Let go of me!" he roared, as Randy caught him by the collar.
"Not just yet, Bob Bangs!" returned Randy. "A fine trick you played this afternoon."
"I didn't play any trick!"
"Yes, you did."
"I didn't! Let me go!" And now Bob Bangs did his best to get away. He saw that Randy and Jack were thoroughly angry and was afraid he was in for a drubbing—or worse. He gave a jerk and then started to run. Randy put out his foot and the big youth went sprawling full length, his face violently striking the ground.
CHAPTER V
THE RESULT OF A QUARREL
If any boy was ever humiliated it was Bob Bangs. His face and hands were covered with dust and so was his elegant suit of clothing, while the skin was cut on the side of his nose.
"Now, see what you have done!" he spluttered, gazing ruefully at himself. "My suit is just about ruined!"
"And it serves you right, Bob Bangs," came warmly from Jack.
"That is what you get for trying to run away," added our hero.
"I'll have the law on you, Randy Thompson!"
"Maybe I'll have the law on you, Bob Bangs!"
"You had no right to throw me down in that fashion."
"Then why did you start to run away?"
"Because I didn't want to stay here—and you had no right to stop me."
"We wanted to know about this berry affair," said Jack. "And about the dirty boat."
"I don't know what you are talking about," answered the big boy, but his face showed his concern.
"You put mud in my boat and spilled our berries."
"Who says I did that?"
"We know you did."
"Did you see us?"
"No, but we know you did it and nobody else."
"You can't prove it," answered Bob, and now his face showed a sign of relief. He had been afraid that there had been a witness of his evil-doing.
"Perhaps we can," said Randy. "Bob Bangs, I think you are the meanest boy in Riverport!" he continued, with spirit.
"I don't care what you think, Randy Thompson. Who are you, anyway? The son of a poor carpenter. Why, you haven't got a decent suit of clothing to your back!"
"For shame, Bob!" broke in Jack. "Randy is a good fellow, even if he is poor."
"Well, if you think he is so good you can go with him. But I don't want to associate with such a low fellow," went on the big youth, as he started to brush himself off with a silk handkerchief.
"So I am a low fellow, am I?" said Randy, in a steady voice, and coming up close to Bob, who promptly began to back away.
"Ye—as, you—you are," stammered the rich youth.
"I've a good mind to knock you down for saying it, Bob Bangs. I am not as low as you."
"Humph!"
"I would never do the low things you have done. It was a mean, contemptible trick that you played on Jack and me. By right you ought to be made to scrub out the boat and pay for the berries you spoiled."
"Bah! I won't touch the boat, and I won't pay a cent."
"Then you admit that you are guilty?"
"I admit that I had some fun, at your expense, yes," answered Bob Bangs. "You can't do anything to me, though, for you can't prove it against me."
"That means, if you were brought up into court, you would lie about it," said Randy.
"Humph! You needn't get so personal, Randy Thompson."
"For two pins, do you know what I would do, Bob Bangs?"
"What?"
"I'd give you a good thrashing," and Randy pulled up his sleeves, as if he meant to begin operations at once.
"No! no! Don't you—you dare to touch me!" gasped the rich boy, in alarm. "If you do, I'll—I'll have the law on you!"
"And we'll have the law on you."
Bob Bangs was more alarmed than ever. He saw that Randy was ready to pitch into him on the instant. He looked around, saw an opening, and darted away at his best speed.
"Let him go—the big coward," called out Jack, for Randy had started after the rich boy. "We can settle with him another time."
"What a mean chap!" cried Randy. "I never saw his equal, never!"
Bob Bangs ran a distance of several rods. Then, seeing a clod of dirt lying in the road, he picked it up and hurled it at the boys. He was not a good thrower, but as luck would have it the clod struck Randy on the shoulder, some of the dirt spattering up into his ear.
"Ha! ha! That's the time you got it!" sang out the rich boy, gleefully.
"And this is the time you are going to get it," returned Randy, and made a dash after him. Seeing this, Jack followed after the pair.
Randy caught Bob Bangs by the arm and threw him over
Randy caught Bob Bangs by the arm and threw him over.
Bob Bangs could run and fear lent speed to his flying feet. But he was no match for Randy, who had on more than one occasion won a running match amongst his schoolfellows. Bob started for home, several blocks away, but just before he reached his gate Randy came near to him, caught him by the arm and flung him over on his side. Then, to hold him down, our hero seated himself on top of the rich boy, who began to bellow lustily.
"Get off of me!"
"I will not!"
"You are squeezing the wind out of me!"
"What right had you to throw that chunk of dirt at me?"
"I—er—I was only fooling."
"Maybe I am only fooling, too."
"You are breaking my ribs! Oh, let up, I say!"
"Are you sorry for what you did?" demanded Randy.
To this Bob Bangs made no reply.
"I see you've got him," said Jack, running up at that instant.
"Yes, and I am going to give it to him good," answered Randy.
"Let up! Help, somebody! Help!" roared Bob, badly frightened. He began to kick and struggle, but Randy held him down and as a consequence he was covered with dust and dirt from head to foot.
In the midst of the mêlée a carriage came along the roadway. It contained Mrs. Bangs and the man-of-all-work, who was driving.
"Mercy on us! What does this mean?" burst from the fashionable lady's lips. "Can that be Robert?"
"Help! help!" roared the rich youth, more lustily than ever.
"It certainly is Robert," went on Mrs. Bangs. "John, stop the carriage. You rude boy, let my son alone!" she went on, in her shrill, hard voice.
"Hullo, here is Mrs. Bangs," remarked Jack, looking around and discovering the new arrival.
For the instant Randy did not see the rich woman and continued to hold down Bob, who struggled violently, sending up a cloud of dust in the road. Then he noticed the carriage and looked up, and his face fell.
"You scamp! Leave my boy alone!" screamed Mrs. Bangs. "Oh, John, perhaps you had better run for a policeman!" she added, as Randy let go his hold and arose.
"You had better not, Mrs. Bangs," said Jack. "Bob deserves what he is getting."
"I do not believe it! It is disgraceful to throw him down in the road like this," stormed the fashionable lady.
"He hit Randy with a chunk of dirt."
"I—I didn't do nothing!" howled Bob, as he got up. He was too ruffled to think of his bad grammar.
"And that elegant suit is about ruined," went on Mrs. Bangs. "I never heard of such doings before. Boy," she went on, looking at Randy, "you ought to be locked up!"
"It is Bob ought to be locked up," retorted Randy. "He started this trouble; I didn't."
"I do not believe it. My son is a gentleman."
"I didn't do a thing," put in the rich boy, feeling safe, now that his mother and the hired man were on the scene. "They pitched into me for nothing at all."
"Bob knows better than that," said Jack.
"Yesterday he tried to steal some fish we caught, and to-day he mussed up Jack's boat and ruined some berries that both of us had picked," explained Randy. "I took him to task about it and then he threw the mud at me. Then I chased him and caught him, as you saw."
"Preposterous! My boy would not steal!" said Mrs. Bangs, tartly. She looked meaningly at Jack. "I presume you and your family are very bitter against us now," she added, significantly.
"Bitter against you?" said Jack, puzzled.
"Yes—because of that iron works affair."
"I don't know anything about that, Mrs. Bangs."
"Oh, then you haven't heard yet." The fashionable woman was nonplussed. "Never mind. You must leave Robert alone."
"Ain't you going to get that policeman and lock them up?" asked the son, anxiously.
"If I am locked up, you'll be locked up, too," said Randy. "And the charge against you will be stealing as well as malicious mischief."
"Yes, and we'll prove our case," added Jack. "Bob doesn't know what witnesses we have."
At this announcement Bob Bangs' face grew pale.
"Yo—you can't prove anything," he faltered.
"You don't know about that," said Randy, taking his cue from Jack.
"I will look into this affair later—just now I have no time," said Mrs. Bangs, after an awkward pause. "Robert, you had better go into the house and clean yourself up. John, you can drive on." And then, while the fashionable woman was driven into her grounds, her son lost no time in sneaking off into the house. As he entered the door he turned and shook his fist at our hero and Jack.
"Jack, I don't think we have heard the last of this," remarked Randy, as he and his companion started away.
"Perhaps not, but I think we have the best of it," answered Jack.
"I don't know about that. Mrs. Bangs is a very high-strung woman and thinks a good deal of Bob."
"I'd like to know what she meant about the iron works matter," went on Jack, with a troubled look on his face. "I hope Mr. Bangs hasn't got the best of father in that deal."
"You had better ask your father when you get home."
"I will."
The two lads hurried back to the boat and placed the craft where it belonged. Then the berries were divided, and each started for his home little dreaming of the trouble that was in store for both of them.
CHAPTER VI
THE IRON WORKS AFFAIR
When Jack arrived at home he took the berries around to the kitchen and then hurried upstairs to the bathroom, to wash and fix up for supper. He was in the midst of his ablutions when he heard his father come in and go to the library. An animated talk between his two parents followed.
"Something unusual is up," thought Jack, and went below as soon as he was fixed up.
He found his father sitting near the library table, his head resting on his hand. His face looked careworn. Mrs. Bartlett sat by an open window clasping her hands tightly. Their earnest talk came to a sudden end as Jack entered.
"Good-evening, father and mother," said the boy and then halted. "Maybe I was interrupting you," he added.
"Jack may as well know," said Mrs. Bartlett, looking meaningly at her husband.
"I suppose so," answered Mr. Bartlett, and gave a long sigh.
"Know what?" asked Jack.
"Your father has had trouble at the iron works," answered his mother.
"What kind of trouble?"
"It is the Bangs affair," answered Mr. Bartlett. "You know a little about that already. Well, Amos Bangs has forced me into a corner."
"What do you mean by that, father?"
"He has gained control of the company and is going to consolidate with the Springfield concern."
"Will that harm you much?"
"A great deal, I am afraid, Jack. In the past I have known all that was going on. Now I will have to rely on Amos Bangs—and I do not care to do that."
"Don't you think he is honest?"
"Privately, I do not, although I should not care to say so in public. He and his friends at Springfield are sharpers. They will squeeze what they can out of the new concern, and I am afraid I shall be left out in the cold."
"Well, I shouldn't trust Mr. Bangs myself. He and his son are of a stripe, and I know only too well now what Bob is."
"Have you had trouble with Bob?" questioned Mrs. Bartlett, quickly.
"Yes," answered Jack, and gave the particulars. "How Bob will crow over me now!" he went on, ruefully.
"This will make Bangs harder on me than ever," remarked Mr. Bartlett.
"Oh, I trust not, father!" cried Jack. "I am sure you have trouble enough already!"
"The Bangses are a hard family to get along with," said Mrs. Bartlett. "I have heard that from several who work for them."
"The men at the office are sorry to see Amos Bangs in control," said Mr. Bartlett. "They know he will drive them more than I have ever driven them, and he will never raise their wages."
"Are you going to leave the company's office, father?"
"Yes. I am no longer an officer, only a stockholder."
"The company ought to give you a position."
"Bangs said I could be a timekeeper, at fifteen dollars per week."
"How mean! And what will his salary be?"
"I don't know yet—probably a hundred and fifty per week—seven or eight thousand per year."
"And you've been getting sixty dollars per week, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"Then I'd go elsewhere."
"That is what I shall do—if I can find any opening. What I am worried about mostly is the capital I have in the iron works, fifteen thousand dollars. I am afraid Bangs will, sooner or later, wipe me out, and do it in such a way that I cannot sue him to advantage."
"It's an outrage!"
"The trouble is, I trusted him too much from the start. He has proved to be a snake in the grass."
"And Bob is exactly like him," said Jack.
The family talked the matter over all during the supper hour and for some time later. The prospect ahead was a dark one and Mrs. Bartlett sighed deeply.
"If you cannot get an opening elsewhere I do not know what we are to do," said she to her husband.
"I'll get something," he replied, bravely. "And remember, I have a thousand dollars in cash in the bank."
"A thousand dollars won't last long, Philip, after once you begin to use it up."
"That is true."
"Have you anything definite in view?"
"Not exactly. I am going to write to my friend Mason, in Albany. He may be able to get me something to do at the iron works there. He is in charge."
"Well, I hope it is better than the place Amos Bangs offered you."
"There is only one trouble," went on Mr. Bartlett. "If I get work at Albany we will have to move to that city."
"Well, we can do that."
"Yes, but I hate to go away from Riverport. I wanted to watch Bangs."
"You might go to Albany every Monday and come home Saturday night, at least for a time."
"Yes, I might do that," answered Philip Bartlett.
On the following morning he went down to the iron works as usual. As early as it was he found Amos Bangs ahead of him, and sorting out some papers at one of the desks.
"Morning," said Amos Bangs, curtly.
"Good-morning," answered Mr. Bartlett. "Mr. Bangs, what are you doing at this desk?"
"Sorting out things."
"Do you not know that this is my private desk?"
"Is it? I thought it belonged to the iron company," answered Amos Bangs with a sneer.
"The desk does belong to the company, but at present it contains my private papers as well as some papers of the company."
"Well, it is going to be my desk after this, I'll thank you to take your personal things away."
"You seem to be in a hurry to get me out."
"I want to get to work here. Things have dragged long enough. I am going to make them hum."
"I am glad to hear it," answered Philip Bartlett, pointedly. "I presume we can look for big dividends on our stock next year."
"Well—er—I don't know about that. We have got to make improvements and they will cost money."
"You didn't want any improvements when I was in charge."
"That was a different thing. The old concern was a small-fry affair. We are going to make the new concern something worth while," answered Amos Bangs, loftily.
"I hope you do—for my sake as well as for the sake of the other stockholders. But what salaries are the new officers to have?"
"That is to be decided later."
"I trust all the profits are not eaten up by the salaries."
"You cannot expect talented men—like myself, for instance—to work for low salaries."
"You used to be willing to work for fifty dollars a week."
"Those days are past. But I cannot waste time talking now. Clean out the desk and turn it over to me," concluded Amos Bangs, and walked away.
With a heavy heart Philip Bartlett set about the task before him. He was much attached to the iron works and hated to leave it. Presently his brow grew troubled.
"Mr. Bangs!" he called.
"What do you want now?"
"Did you see anything of some papers with a broad rubber band around them?"
"Didn't see anything but what is there."
"I had some private papers. They seem to be gone."
"I didn't take them," answered Amos Bangs, coldly.
"It is queer where they can be," went on Philip Bartlett.
"Well, I haven't got them."
Philip Bartlett hunted high and low for the missing documents, but without success. Then he cleaned out the desk, put his personal things in a package, said good-by to his former employees, and quit the office.
"I am well rid of him," said Amos Bangs, to himself. "And I am glad I got hold of those private contracts. Now I can make a deal with Shaster and turn the work over to the Springfield concern—and make some money!"
CHAPTER VII
MORE TROUBLES FOR RANDY
Two days passed quietly, and Randy did not see or hear anything more of Bob Bangs. Then he learned through Jack that Mrs. Bangs had gone off on a summer trip, taking her son with her.
"I hear there are great changes at the iron works," said Randy, to his friend. "Mr. Bangs, they say, is in charge."
"He is, and father is out of it," answered Jack, bitterly. "That is what Mrs. Bangs meant when she said I must be bitter against the family."
"Is your father out of it entirely, Jack?"
"Yes, so far as holding a position is concerned. He still has his stock. But he is afraid that won't be worth much, if Amos Bangs runs the concern."
"What is your father going to do?"
"He doesn't know yet. He is trying to connect with some other iron works."
"I hope he strikes something good."
"So do I, Randy."
"I wish I could get something to do, too," went on Randy.
"You mean during the summer?"
"Yes, and maybe later, too."
"Why, isn't your father working?"
"Not to-day. He has been working in a damp cellar and that brought on his old complaint, rheumatism. He suffers something awful with it. He ought to have a long rest."
"He certainly ought not to work in a cellar."
"He has already told his boss he couldn't go at it again," answered Randy.
"Have you had a doctor?"
"Yes, Doctor Case came this morning."
"What does he say?"
"He says rheumatism is hard to cure and that my father will have to take care of himself," answered Randy. "But I must go on now," he added. "I must get some things for mother at the store."
What Randy said about his father was true. Louis Thompson was suffering very much. He rested on a couch in the sitting room of the cottage, and his wife did what she could to relieve his pain.
Several days passed and the rheumatism, instead of growing better, became worse, so that neither Mrs. Thompson nor Randy knew what to do for the sufferer. Then Mr. Thompson's side began to draw up, and in haste a specialist from the city was called in. He gave some relief, but said it would be a long time before the sufferer would be able to go to work again.
"You must keep off your left leg," said the specialist.
A few days after that Louis Thompson tried to walk. But the pain was so great he could not stand on the rheumatic limb. He sank on his couch with a groan.
"I cannot do it," he gasped.
"Then do not try," answered his wife.
"But I must get to work, Lucy. I cannot afford to be idle."
"Never mind, Louis; we will get along somehow."
"How much did that specialist charge?"
"Fifty dollars?"
"And what was Doctor Case's bill?"
"Ten dollars."
"Sixty dollars! And we had only ninety dollars in the bank! That leaves us only thirty dollars."
To this Mrs. Thompson did not answer. She had used up nearly ten dollars for medicines, but did not wish to worry her suffering husband by mentioning it.
"If I don't go to work we'll all starve to death!" continued Louis Thompson.
"We'll manage somehow," answered the wife, bravely.
Nevertheless, she was much discouraged, and that evening, when her husband was asleep, she and Randy talked the matter over as they sat on the porch in the darkness.
"Mother," said Randy, earnestly, "I don't want you to feel troubled. You have labored so long for me that it is now my turn. I only want something to do."
"My dear child," said the mother, "I do not need to be assured of your willingness. But I am sorry that you should be compelled to give up your vacation and maybe your schooling."
"Giving up schooling will not be necessary. I can study in the evenings. I am wondering what I can find to do."
"I know so little about such things, Randy, that we must consult someone who is better qualified to give advice in the matter—your Uncle Peter, for instance."
At this Randy gave a sigh.
"I don't know Uncle Peter. He never comes here."
"That is true," answered Mrs. Thompson, with some hesitation. "But you know he is a business man and has a great deal to attend to. Besides, he has married a lady who is exceedingly fashionable, and I suppose he does not care to bring her to visit such unfashionable folks as we are."
"Then," said Randy, indignantly, "I don't want to trouble him with any of my applications. If he doesn't think us good enough to visit we won't force ourselves upon him."
"My dear boy, you are too excitable. It may be that it is only his business engagements that have kept him away from us. Besides, you can go to him only for advice; it is quite different from asking assistance."
Mother and son discussed the situation for fully an hour and at last, in the absence of other plans, it was decided that Randy should go to his uncle the next day and make known his wants. Mr. Thompson was told, early in the morning, and said Randy could do as he thought best.
"But don't expect too much from your Uncle Peter," said the sick man.
Peter Thompson was an elder brother to Randy's father. Early in life he had entered a counting room and ever since had been engaged in mercantile pursuits. At the age of twenty-eight he had married a dashing lady, who was more noted for her fashionable pretensions than for any attractive qualities of the heart. She was now at the head of a very showy establishment, far more pretentious than that over which Mrs. Bangs presided. She knew little about her husband's relations and cared still less.
The town of Riverport was twenty miles distant from Deep Haven, where Peter Thompson resided with his family. A boat ran daily between these places and several others, but Randy did not wish to spend the necessary fare, and so borrowed a bicycle from Jack and made the trip by way of the river road, a safe if not very comfortable highway.
Randy had been to Deep Haven several times in years gone by, but, strange as it may seem, had never gone near his uncle's residence. But he knew where the house was located—a fine brick affair, with a swell front—and leaning his bicycle against a tree, he mounted the stone steps and rang the bell.
"What's wanted?" demanded the servant who answered the summons, and she looked Randy over in a supercilious manner, not at all impressed by the modest manner in which he was attired.
"Is Uncle Peter at home?" asked Randy, politely.
"Who's Uncle Peter?"
"Mr. Peter Thompson?"
"No, he isn't."
"Where is he?"
"At his store, I expect."
"Is Mrs. Thompson at home?"
"I don't know. I'll see. Who shall I say wants to see her?"
"Randy Thompson."
Randy was left standing in the elegantly furnished hallway while the servant departed. He could not help but contrast such elegance with his own modest home.
"Come into the drawing room," said the servant, briefly, on returning, and ushered him into the finest apartment he had ever entered.
Here he was kept waiting for fully quarter of an hour. Then a showily dressed woman swept into the room with a majestic air and fixed a cold stare upon our hero.
"Are you my aunt?" he asked, somewhat disconcerted by his chilling reception.
"Really, I couldn't say—not having seen you before," she answered.
"My name is Randy Thompson. I am the son of Louis Thompson, of Riverport."
"Ah, I see."
The woman said no more, but seemed to await developments. Randy was greatly embarrassed. His aunt's coldness repelled him, and he easily saw that he was not a welcome visitor. A touch of pride came to him and he resolved that he would be as unsociable as his relative.
"What can he want of me?" thought the woman.
As Randy said nothing more she grew tired of the stillness and drew herself up once more.
"You must excuse me this morning," she said. "I am particularly engaged. I suppose you know where your uncle's store is. You will probably find him there." And then she rang for the servant to show our hero to the door. He was glad to get out into the open air once more.
"So that is Aunt Grace," he mused. "Well, I don't know as I shall ever wish to call upon her again. She is as bad as an iceberg for freezing a fellow. No wonder she and mother have never become friends."
CHAPTER VIII
RANDY AND HIS UNCLE PETER
From his uncle's home Randy rode on his bicycle to Peter Thompson's store—a fairly large concern, the largest, in fact, in Deep Haven. He found his uncle behind a desk in the rear, busy over some accounts. For several minutes he paid no attention to his visitor. Then he stuck his pen behind his ear and gave Randy a sharp look.
"How do you do, Uncle Peter?" said the youth.
"Why—er—who is this?" stammered Peter Thompson. "I don't seem to quite know you."
"I am Randy Thompson, your nephew."
"Oh, yes, my younger brother Louis' son, I believe."
"Yes, sir."
"I remember you now." Peter Thompson held out a flabby and cold hand. "Come to town on business, I suppose."
"In a way, yes, sir. Father is down with rheumatism."
"Hum! Didn't take proper care of himself, I suppose."
"He had to work in a cellar and that put him in bed."
"And you have come to ask help, I suppose." Peter Thompson's face dropped quickly. "I am sorry, but my family expenses are very large, and trade is dull. If I were able——"
"You are mistaken," said Randy, a flush mounting to his brow. "I do not come for assistance. I am old enough to work, if I only knew what to do. Mother told me to come to you for advice."
Peter Thompson looked relieved when he understood that Randy's visit meant no demand upon his purse, and he regarded the youth more favorably than he had done.
"Ah, that's well," he said, rubbing his flabby hands together. "I like your independence.Now, let me see." He scratched his head. "Do you know anything about horses?"
"No, sir; but perhaps I could learn."
"The livery-stable keeper wants a boy, but he must know all about horses."
"How much would he pay a week?"
"Two dollars at the start."
"That would not be enough for me."
"I might get you in some store in the city," continued Peter Thompson. "Would you like that?"
"If it paid, yes."
"It would pay but little the first year. But you would gain a valuable experience."
"I cannot afford that, Uncle Peter. I must earn something at once, to support our family."
"Then I don't know what can be done," said the storekeeper, with a shrug of his shoulders. "There are very few things that boys of your age can do, and it is so easy to obtain boys that people are not willing to pay much in wages."
Randy looked crestfallen and his uncle embarrassed. The merchant feared that he might be compelled by the world's opinion to aid his brother and his family. But suddenly an idea struck him.
"Do you know anything about farming?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir," said Randy; "a little."
"I ask for this reason," pursued Mr. Thompson. "When your grandfather died he left to me a small farm in Riverport. It is not very good and has been used mostly as a pasture. I have been so occupied with other things that I could not look after it. Perhaps you may know something of it."
"Yes, sir, I do. It is about half a mile from our house, and is called the twelve-acre lot. But I didn't know it belonged to you."
"It does. What I was going to say is that, although I am unable to give you such assistance as I should like, I will, if you wish it, give you the use of that lot, and the little cottage on it, rent-free so long as you care to use it. Perhaps you can put it to some use. Anyway, you can use the cottage."
Randy's face lighted up, much to his uncle's satisfaction. The land was not extra good and the cottage all but tumbled down, yet it was better than nothing. They could move out of the cottage in which they were now located, and thus save the monthly rent, which was eight dollars. Besides that, Randy felt that he could do something with the garden, even though it was rather late in the season. Where they now lived there was little room to grow vegetables.
"You are sure you don't want to use the place, Uncle Peter?" he asked.
"Not at all. You can use it as long as you please."
"Maybe you would like to sell it."
"Ahem! If you wish to buy it you can make an offer after you are on the place. I once offered it to a man for two hundred dollars, but he would not take me up."
"Then you will sell it for two hundred dollars?"
"I will sell it to you, or rather your father, for a hundred and fifty dollars."
"I'll remember that, sir. It may be that we will like the place so much we shall want to buy—if we can raise the money."
"You can pay off the amount at the rate of fifty dollars per year if you wish."
"Thank you. You are kind and I appreciate it," and Randy meant what he said.
Peter Thompson looked at the clock.
"I must go to dinner now. Will you dine with me?"
Had his uncle been alone Randy might have accepted the offer, but he remembered the reception his aunt had given him and so declined.
"I think I had better get back to Riverport," he said. "I will tell mother and father about the twelve-acre lot and see what they have to say about it."
"Very well."
"Would you mind giving me a slip of paper so that we can prove we have a right to occupy the place?" pursued Randy. "Some folks may try to dispute our right. I know one man who pastures cows there."
"He has no right to do so. Here, I will give you a paper in due form."
Whatever his other shortcomings, Peter Thompson was not a slipshod business man. He drew up a paper in due form, stating that his brother could occupy the little farm for five years, rent-free, and if he wished to do so could at any time in said five years buy the little farm for one hundred and fifty dollars, payable at the rate of fifty dollars per year, without interest.
"And now good-by and good luck to you," said he as he handed the paper to Randy. "Some day, if I can get the time, I may call upon you. But I rarely go away from home."
Randy shook hands and left, and in a minute more was riding home on the bicycle.
"Well, I think I've gained something," he thought, as he sped along. "Anyway, we will have a roof over our heads and that is something. To be sure, the cottage is a poor one, but poor folks can't have everything as they want it."
When the boy arrived home he found his father had had another bad turn but was now resting easier. Without delay he told of what had happened at Deep Haven.
"Your aunt is a Tartar," said Louis Thompson. "I never liked her, and that is why I and your Uncle Peter have drifted apart. I thought he had sold the twelve-acre lot to Jerry Borden, who pastures his cows there."
"Jerry Borden will have to get out—that is, if we take possession," said Randy. "Mother, what do you think of it?"
"Is the cottage usable? I have not seen it for a year or more."
"It will have to be fixed up some. But I am sure I can do the work, with father's tools."
"It will save the rent money."
"And I can plant a garden, even if it is late. And we can keep some chickens, and then, after everything is in shape, I can again look for outside work."
"Randy's idea is a good one," answered the boy's father. "Our month will be up here next week. I'll notify the owner at once about leaving."
The next morning Randy went over to the twelve-acre farm, a corner of which sloped down to the river. He had passed it a hundred times before, but it was with an entirely different feeling that he surveyed it now.
It was pasture land, naturally good, but much neglected. A great many stones needed to be removed and the fences wanted propping up and here and there a new rail. The house, which faced a little side road, was a story and a half in height, with two rooms below and two chambers above. There was a well that needed fixing and also a cistern. Around the cottage the weeds grew high, and one of the windows was out and a door was missing.
"I can fix this place up, I am sure of it," said the boy to himself.
He was making a mental note of what was to be done when he heard a noise on the road and saw a farmer approaching, driving a dozen cows before him. It was Jerry Borden, the man who had been using the pasture lot without paying for it.
"Hullo! What air you a-doin' here?" asked Jerry Borden, looking at Randy in some surprise.
"We are going to move over here, Mr. Borden," answered Randy, calmly.
"Move over here!" ejaculated the farmer.
"Yes."
"In this air tumble-down cottage?"
"I am going to fix it up some."
"Well, I vow! It ain't fit to live in!"
"It will be."
"An' the land ain't wuth shucks."
"It seems to be good enough for the cows."
At this Jerry Borden's face fell a little.
"If you air a-goin' to move in, I guess thet means I'm to move out," he ventured.
"It does, unless——" Randy paused, struck by a sudden idea.
"Unless what?" asked the farmer, eagerly. He wanted to use the lot very much, for he was short of pasturing on his own farm.
"Unless we can come to some sort of an agreement for milk and butter. Of course I can't let you use the whole lot, but you might use part of it."
"Did the owner say you could use the place?"
"Yes, we have it down in writing. We are to use it for five years and then we can buy it if we wish."
"I see." The farmer scratched his head. "Well, I dunno. Maybe we could let ye have butter an' milk. One thing is certain, I've got to have pasturin'."
"We could fence off part of the lot in some way and you could use that."
"Thet's so."
"Besides that, I'll want some plowing done. I may have to hire you for that," pursued Randy.
"I must say I like your spunk, Randy. I shan't charge ye a cent fer plowin'."
After that the farmer and our hero talked matters over for half an hour, and the farmer told the youth what might be planted to advantage even so late in the season. Then Randy went home, feeling that the family was going to make a good move.