Me & My Little Brain

by John D. Fitzgerald

  Me and My Little Brain

  By John D. Fitzgerald

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  The Wheeler-Dealer

  CHAPTER 2

  A Born Loser

  CHAPTER 3

  Frankie Pennyworth

  CHAPTER 4

  Cutting Frankie's Mental Block

  CHAPTER 5

  Frankie Takes Over

  CHAPTER 6

  The Escape of Cal Roberts

  CHAPTER 7

  Hostage

  CHAPTER 8

  My Little Brain Against Cal Roberts

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Wheeler-Dealer

  ON THE SECOND MONDAY of September in 1897 I was sitting on top of the world. Well, to tell the truth, I wasn't actually sitting on top of the world. I just felt as if I were. I was sitting on the top rail of our corral fence watching Frank Jensen doing all my chores. It reminded me of the hundreds of times my brother Tom had sat on the corral fence watching me do all his chores. He had bamboozled me into doing his share of the work so many times that Mamma and Aunt Bertha were both astonished whenever they saw him carrying in a bucketful of coal or an armful of kindling wood. And that is why I felt as if I were sitting on top of the world.

  I had been the victim of Tom's great brain more times than a horse switches its tail knocking off flies in the summertime. He had swindled me out of my birthday and Christmas presents until there was no sense in me having a birthday or receiving Christmas presents. I wasn't the only kid in Adenville, Utah, who had been victimized by my brother's great brain. Tom didn't play any favorites when it came to being the youngest confidence man who ever lived. There wasn't a kid in town who hadn't been swindled by my brother.

  I didn't hold a grudge against Tom for the many times he had put one over on me. I was actually grateful. When a fellow has been the victim of every confidence trick in the book, he gets to be pretty darn sharp himself. So sharp, I was positive I could step right into Tom's shoes after he left for the Catholic Academy in Salt Lake City with my oldest brother, Sweyn.

  Adenville had a population of about two thousand Mormons and about five hundred Protestants and Catholics. We had a one-room schoolhouse where Mr. Standish taught the first through the sixth grades. Any parents who wanted their children to get a higher education had to send them to Salt Lake City. Sweyn was starting his second year at the Academy. Tom was only eleven but going to the Academy because he was so smart Mr. Standish had let him skip a grade. I was only nine years old and wouldn't be going away to school for a few years.

  I thought I would bawl like a baby when Tom left. I felt sad about having a brother I loved leave home. I knew I would miss him very much. But at the same time I couldn't help feeling sort of relieved.

  Mamma and Aunt Bertha carried on as if my brothers were going off to war as the train left the depot.

  "I feel so sorry for my two boys," Mamma cried. "They are so very young to be leaving home."

  Papa put his arm around Mamma's shoulders. "If you must feel sorry for anybody," he said, "feel sorry for the Jesuit priests at the Academy who are going to have to put up with the Great Brain for the next nine months."

  I know that sounds like a cruel thing for a father to say. Papa was editor and publisher of the Adenville Weekly Advocate and was considered one of the smartest men in town. But Tom had made a fool out of Papa almost as many times as he had me. Maybe that was why Papa had said what he did. Sometimes I thought Tom had made Papa and me his favorite victims because we looked so much alike. I was a real leaf off the Fitzgerald family tree. I had the same dark curly hair and deep brown eyes that Papa had. Anybody could tell I just had to be his son by looking at us. Sweyn was a blond and looked like our Danish mother. Tom didn't look like Papa and he didn't look like Mamma unless you sort of put them both together.

  I couldn't help feeling a sense of great power after Tom was gone from Adenville. I knew I only had a little brain compared with Tom's great brain. But I believed I'd learned enough from my brother to outsmart any kid in town. I knew I wasn't a genius like Tom when it came to putting one over on Papa or Mamma and other adults in town. But my brother had taught me that adults are pretty dumb, and a kid who uses his head can fool them most of the time. The time had come for me to take over where Tom had left off.

  Tom and I had each received ten cents a week allowance for doing our chores. I know that doesn't sound like much, but back in the 1890's a dime would buy what it costs fifty cents or more to buy today. Soda pop was only a penny and so was a double-scoop ice cream cone. Papa increased my allowance to twenty cents a week for doing all the chores after Tom left home. This was a windfall because Tom had connived me into doing all the chores about ninety percent of the time anyway. I could see no reason for me ever doing any more chores now that I had an allowance of twenty cents a week.

  I didn't get a chance to start wheeling and dealing until the Saturday after school started. I rode Tom's bike over to where Frank and Allan Jensen lived, on the outskirts of town. I knew the Jensen family was very poor. Allan was fourteen but his parents couldn't afford to send him away to school. Frank was twelve years old. They both had blond hair that was almost white. It grew funny down over their foreheads so a shock of it was always sticking out under the visors of their caps.

  They were hauling manure from their barn to spread on their big vegetable garden. Everybody put manure on their gardens in the fall. Then in the spring they would spade or plow it under before planting. It not only fertilized the ground but also kept all kinds of bugs out of the gardens.

  Frank and Allan were using a stone sled to haul the manure. Practically everybody owned a stone sled in those days. They were made with two-by-four runners sawed at an angle in front. More two-by-fours or thick boards were used to build a platform. Holes were drilled in the front part of the runners. A rope or chain was hooked through the holes and to the tugs of a horse's harness. They were called stone sleds because they were originally used by early pioneers to haul stones to build fireplaces. They were very handy for small hauling jobs instead of using a wagon. Frank and Allan were in their barn loading manure on their stone sled with pitchforks when I walked in, wheeling Tom's bike.

  "I have a proposition to make you," I said.

  They both stopped working and leaned on the handles of their pitchforks.

  Allan asked, "What kind of a proposition?"

  "I'll pay you five cents a week to do my chores," I said. "You can take turns each week."

  Allan looked steadily at me. "Just what do you call chores?" he asked.

  "Once a day you fill up all the woodboxes and coal buckets in the parlor, dining room, bathroom, and kitchen," I said. "And you feed and water our team of horses and the milk cow and Sweyn's mustang, Dusty. And you milk the cow and feed and water the chickens."

  Allan shook his head. "That is a lot of work for just a nickel a week," he said.

  I was expecting him to say just that. Tom had taught me when making a deal to always offer only half at first. Then when you double it, a kid will think he is getting a good deal.

  "I'll make it a dime a week," I said. "That will give each of you a nickel a week spending money."

  Allan looked at his brother and then back at me. "No mowing the lawn or weeding the garden or chopping kindling wood or things like that?" he asked.

  "No," I said. "If the lawn needs cutting or there are weeds to pull, I'll do it. And my father always chops our kindling wood for exercise."

  Allan nodded. "We'll take it," he said. "When do we start?"

  "Monday after school," I answered.

  "When do we get paid?" Allan asked.

  "I'll pay you every Monday for the previous week's work," I said.


  We all shook hands to seal the bargain. I'd pulled off my first big deal. Frank and Allan would be doing all my chores for ten cents a week. That left me a neat profit of a dime a week for doing nothing. Now all I had to do was think up a good story to tell Papa and Mamma.

  I couldn't help feeling very proud of myself as I rode Tom's bike down Main Street on my way home. I had Adenville in the palm of my hand. It wouldn't surprise me if I ended up becoming the youngest mayor in Utah. As its mayor, Adenville was a town of which I could be proud. It was a typical Utah town, depending upon agriculture since the closing of the mines in the nearby ghost town of Silverlode. We had electric lights and telephones. The streets were wide and covered with gravel. There were wooden sidewalks in front of the stores. We had sidewalks made from ashes and cinders in front of homes. All the streets were lined with trees planted by early Mormon pioneers. The railroad tracks separated the west side of town from the east side. All the homes and most of the places of business were on the west side. There were just a couple of saloons, the Sheepmen's Hotel, Palace Cafe, the livery stable, the blacksmith shop, and a couple of other stores and a rooming house on the east side. When I rode down an alley and into our backyard, my dog Brownie and his pup Prince came running to meet me. I put the bike on the back porch after patting them on the heads. Brownie was a thoroughbred Alaskan malamute. The pup was the pick of the litter after I'd mated Brownie with a sheep dog named Lady owned by Frank and Allan Jensen. I walked to our barn and climbed up the rope ladder to the loft. Papa and Mr. Jamison, the carpenter, had built the loft for me and my brothers. They had laid boards across three beam rafters and nailed them down. They had also made a wooden ladder up the side of the barn to the loft. Tom, in his usual style, had taken possession of the loft. He had removed the wooden ladder and replaced it with a rope ladder. This way he could climb into the loft and pull the rope ladder up after him so nobody else could come up. Tom had an accumulation of stuff in the loft ranging from an old trunk of Mamma's to the skull of an Indian that Uncle Mark had given him. My Uncle Mark was the Marshal of Adenville and a Deputy Sheriff. Adenville was the county seat and my uncle was Acting Sheriff most of the time. Sheriff Baker spent a great deal of time tracking down Paiute Indians who left the reservation in the county, and renegade Navaho Indians who made raids into Southwestern Utah from Arizona. People said that Sheriff Baker took care of the Indians and Uncle Mark took care of white lawbreakers.

  I sat down on one of the boxes in the loft. I put my right hand under my chin and my elbow on my right knee just like a picture I'd seen of a statue called "The Thinker." I figured this position would help me think up a good story to tell Papa and Mamma. But I found out the sculptor who had made the statue didn't know beans about thinking. I couldn't think because the position was so darn uncomfortable. I lay down on my back and stared up at the roof instead. I knew if I told Papa and Mamma I'd hired Frank and Allan to do my chores for ten cents a week what they would say. They would say if I was going to hire somebody to do my chores I should pay them the whole twenty cents a week.

  When I went to bed that night I still hadn't thought up a good story. Then I remembered something Tom had told me one time. He had said that a person's subconscious mind was a hundred times smarter than his conscious mind. And he'd told me that if a person just thinks about a problem before going to sleep, the subconscious mind would solve the problem while the person was asleep. And when you woke up in the morning the answer would be in your conscious mind. It sounded complicated to me. But I was really concentrating on what I'd tell Papa and Mamma when I fell asleep that night.

  And, by jingo, it worked! When I woke up in the morning I had my story. I waited until after supper that Sunday evening to tell it. Papa was sitting in his rocking chair reading the mail edition of the New York World. Mamma was sitting in her maple rocker crocheting. The light from the ceiling chandelier made her blonde hair, piled high with braids on her head, shine as if it were golden. Aunt Bertha was sitting on the couch darning some socks. She wasn't really my aunt. She had come to live with us after her husband died. She was sixty years old and had hands and feet as big as a man's. I was sitting on the Oriental rug in front of our huge stone fireplace.

  "I was talking to Frank and Allan Jensen yesterday," I said. "I sure feel sorry for them."

  Papa dropped the newspaper on his lap. "What makes you say that, J.D.?" he asked. Papa always called us boys by our initials.

  "Because they are so poor," I said, "the only time they ever get a piece of candy is at Christmas time."

  "Mr. Jensen is a poor but proud man," Papa said. "But I do know the family has enough to eat because the Mormons never let another Mormon go hungry."

  "But don't you think every boy is entitled to some candy more than just once a year?" I asked.

  "Yes, I do," Papa answered.

  I knew I had him. I'd made Papa walk right into my trap. Now all I needed was to make Mamma second the motion.

  "How about you, Mamma?" I asked.

  "Candy is a part of boyhood," she said. "I must remember the next time I make some candy to send some over to

  Mrs. Jensen."

  "You won't have to," I said. "I fixed it so Frank and Allan can have some candy every week."

  Papa stared at me. "And just how did you arrange that?" he asked.

  "I'm going to pay them ten cents a week out of my allowance to help me do my chores," I said. "Frank will help one week and Allan the next week. That will give each of them a nickel spending money every week."

  "I'm proud of you, son," Papa said, and I knew when he called me "son" he was feeling very proud of me.

  "God bless you," Mamma said.

  "Amen," Aunt Bertha said.

  I was so excited I felt like doing an Indian war dance right in our parlor. I'd begun my career as a wheeler-dealer by pulling off my first big deal.

  And that is how come I was sitting on the top rail of our corral fence the next day after school feeling as if I were sitting on top of the world. But I sure as heck wasn't sitting there very long.

  Mamma kept looking at me in a funny sort of way all through our roast pork supper with homemade gooseberry pie for dessert. She didn't say anything until we'd finished eating and she had folded her napkin and put it in the silver napkin ring.

  "I thought, John D.," she said, "that Frank and Allan were just supposed to help you with your chores. From what I saw this first day it appeared that Frank did all your chores. And all you did was sit on the corral fence watching him." I had to think fast. The answer came so quickly that I began to believe I had a great brain like Tom.

  "Frank and Allan appreciate what I'm doing for them so much," I said, "that they insisted on doing all my chores." "Good," Mamma said, to my surprise. Papa was also surprised. "What is good about it?" he asked. "It seems to me we got rid of one conniver by sending him off to Salt Lake City only to discover we have another one in our midst."

  Mamma smiled. "Don't you see, dear, this means John D. will have time to do other things that need to be done." I didn't like the sound of it. "What other things?" I asked.

  "You can begin tomorrow after school by spreading manure on our vegetable garden," Mamma said.

  That was when I learned something about mothers I didn't know. They just couldn't stand to see their sons taking it easy. I looked at Papa with pleading eyes. He had always said it was brains that counted and not muscle. He would appreciate how smart I had been. I couldn't have been more wrong than a mouse who spits in a cat's face.

  "That is a splendid idea," Papa said, as if he enjoyed making a slave out of his own flesh and blood. "I thought I might have to hire a man to do it, with Tom gone. But J.D. is big enough to handle it."

  "And when he finishes that job," Mamma said, as if she were doing me a big favor, "he can help Bertha and me with the fall housecleaning. The wallpaper needs cleaning in all the upstairs rooms and in the two bedrooms downstairs. He won't have to bother with the parlor and dining room
because I'm going to put new wallpaper in both rooms. And there will be windows to wash and rugs to beat and a lot of other things he can do to help."

  I knew there was no appealing one of Mamma's decisions. I also knew that if I listened to any more I'd burst out crying. I excused myself from the table and ran up to my room. I threw myself on the bed. I tried to hold back the tears but couldn't. If ever a fellow had a right to cry, I sure did.

  I would ten times rather do my chores than haul manure, which meant I had to take a bath every night before supper. I would a hundred times rather do my chores than help with the fall housecleaning. And the worst part of housecleaning was cleaning the wallpaper. You had to do it with a homemade dough that really smelled bad. I don't know what Mamma put into it but it was like having a skunk in your hand. And you had to rub it over every inch of the wallpaper. I admit it really cleaned wallpaper, taking off the grime and dirt just like an eraser. But it was back-breaking work and the smell was enough to make a fellow sick to his stomach.