A Bright Tomorrow

by Gilbert, Morris

  As he sailed along, he spotted a hobo jungle set back from the road, close to a small stream, and marked the spot. When he arrived in the town, he parked the Ford and explored the main street. He mailed his letters to Amos, Lylah, and Logan, then ambled back down the street, stopping at the drugstore on impulse.

  It was a long, narrow shop, with glass-lined cases around the walls and a long soda fountain flanked by steel stools along one wall. He studied the list of offerings carefully:

  SODA FOUNTAIN

  Ice Cream Soda 10 cents Grape Lemonade 15 cents

  Plain Soda 5 cents Orangeade 5 cents

  Root Beer Float 5 cents Lemon Phosphate 5 cents

  Sundae 10 cents Buttermilk 5 cents

  Cantaloupe Sundae 15 cents Egg Milk Chocolate 10 cents

  Egg Drinks 10 cents Coffee 10 cents

  Tonic Water 10 centsCakes 5 cents

  DRUGS

  Witch Hazel 25 cents Corn Plasters 10 cents

  Aruica Salve 10 cents Wart Remover 10 cents

  Bromo Seltzer 10 cents Castoria 35 cents

  Wine of Cardui $1.00 St. Jacob’s Oil 25 cents

  Cough Syrup 25 cents Hair Balsam 50 cents

  “Guess I’ll have a grape lemonade,” Owen said. He sipped the sweet beverage, wishing he could buy one for his sisters and brothers and reminding himself to tell Logan to take them all in to the drugstore at Mountain View for a treat.

  Owen strolled out of the drugstore and stepped into the general store, which smelled pleasantly of leather, cloth, and fresh vegetables, and spent half an hour picking out a few things. He thought of the hobo jungle and bought some cans of beans and bacon—something he often did, for he liked to talk to hobos.

  When he came to the counter, his eyes lit on an advertisement for store-bought cigarettes. There, as big as life, was a picture of Lylah, smiling at him and holding up a package of Bravo cigarettes. According to the caption under her picture, she was saying, “I always smoke Bravo cigarettes! Why don’t you try them?”

  When the clerk came to tally his purchases, Owen asked, “How much for the picture?”

  The clerk blinked in surprise, but grinned and said, “Take it, buddy. Just don’t tell the boss.” He stared at the picture and shook his head. “She’s the cat’s pajamas!”

  Owen put his supplies on the floorboard, cranked up the Model A, and drove out of town. As he made his way along the road, he saw a broken tree limb stuck in the ground with a tin can on top—the sign of a hobo jungle, Owen had learned from his talks with the tramps. He found the camp beside a small stream, where about twelve men were sitting around while one man tended a large kettle, stirring its contents with a tree limb that had been stripped clean of bark.

  “Well, sir, you’re just in time for dinner,” said the cook. He was a very fat man with a pair of bright black eyes, and he wore castoff clothing, none of which fit, and a black derby on his head.

  “We can’t feed everybody who comes down the pike!”

  Owen looked over to see a hulking tramp glaring at him. The man was a troublemaker, Owen knew instantly, but he smiled and held up the box of groceries. “Something for the pot.”

  “Why, that’s handsome of you, sir!” the cook said. “Very handsome!” He began to pull out the contents, examining them with a flourish. “I’m Wilber Watterson, sir. And you are—?”

  Owen gave his name, then sat down and listened as Watterson kept up a running line of chatter. Owen liked to talk with the hobos and had decided that if he ever lost his job, he’d join their ranks. They led a hard life, exciting and dangerous, dodging the railroad crews. But they quickly became expert at begging, learning all the tricks of reaping a harvest from the people of the small towns along the railroad line.

  By the time Watterson had finished his mulligan stew to his satisfaction, Owen had most of the tramps pegged. They were all, he saw, afraid of the beefy-shouldered tramp who had challenged him—Red Bennett by name. The man was not old, but his face was cruel, and he would have no mercy on a man, Owen understood instinctively.

  “Come and get it, gentlemen!” Watterson called.

  Owen stepped aside to let the others go first, then accepted a tin can offered by the cook and ladled out some of the stew for himself. It was surprisingly good, and he said so.

  “Ah, Mr. Stuart, when I was a younger man, I was a chef at Antoine’s in New Orleans!” Watterson began to eat hungrily, but the food flowing down his throat seemed to have no effect on the words that flowed steadily from his lips.

  He was right in the middle of an outlandish story about how he had once entertained the czar of Russia, when he paused abruptly and looked across the camp. Owen turned to see two small figures, obviously tramps themselves, emerging from the woods. They were wearing baggy pants and coats, and both had soft hats with the bills pulled down low over their foreheads.

  “Well, now—” Watterson grinned. “Our company is growing all the time!”

  “We don’t need no kids around here,” growled Red Bennett. “You punks beat it!”

  The young tramps halted, and Owen saw that the taller of the two could be no older than fifteen or sixteen, and the other nearer twelve. The older one had rosy cheeks and large dark eyes, and strands of blond hair escaped from beneath the soft cap. “We ain’t beggars,” this one said defiantly. “We got some beans for the pot.”

  “Get outta here.” Bennett scowled. “Kids mean trouble.” He swiped at his mouth with his hand and came to his feet when the pair didn’t move. “You deaf? I said beat it!”

  But the older tramp looked around and spotted Watterson. “Here, take these and put ’em in the pot.”

  Watterson caught the two cans of beans deftly. “It’s okay, Red. No trouble.”

  But Bennett moved quickly for a man his size. Stepping up to the small pair, he took the older one by the arm and snarled, “You want a fat lip?” Then he struck the youngster with the flat of his hand, the blow making a splat as it landed. The blow drove the youngster back, and the soft hat went flying.

  All the tramps were shocked to see a mane of yellow hair spilling around the fallen tramp’s shoulders, and Bennett exclaimed, “It’s a girl!” He moved quickly, grasping the young woman’s arm and yanking her to her feet.

  She was, Owen saw, a rather pretty girl—or would be if she were cleaned up and fed properly. He got to his feet, sensing trouble.

  Bennett began to pull at the girl, grinning broadly. “Why, sure you can stay, sweetheart! We’ll have us a party, just me and you—ow!” At that, the smaller tramp had run forward and kicked Bennett on the shin, and the big hobo put him down with one vicious swing.

  The girl cried out, her eyes wide with fear. There was no mistaking Bennett’s intention, and Owen stepped close and brought the edge of his palm down on Bennett’s forearm, knocking the big man’s arm downward, so that the girl staggered back.

  “Hit the road, Red,” Owen said, watching the big tramp carefully. Such men usually carried knives or guns, and he stood close enough to strike again if he saw evidence of either.

  But Bennett was confident of his own huge fists and cursed Owen roundly, then struck out with a looping right. Owen barely moved his head enough to let the blow slip by, and while Bennett was off balance, he pivoted on his right foot and drove as hard a punch as he’d ever thrown in his life at the man. The force of it started in his right foot and traveled up his leg, where the V-shaped torso channeled the surge of power into the swelling deltoid muscles. His arm moved forward like a piston, exploding on Bennett’s mouth with a fearful power. It was even more devastating, for it caught the big man coming in.

  A solid meaty sound accompanied the blow, and Bennett’s head was driven backward. He dropped to the ground with blood frothing from a split lip, and he lay on the ground, his legs twitching convulsively in the dust.

  For one moment, there was total silence as the tramps stared at the bulky form of Red Bennett. Then Watterson whooped and did a little dance. “By gum! Never tho
ught I’d see the day! John L. Sullivan ain’t got nothin’ on you, son!”

  Owen stared down at Bennett’s broken figure, then turned to the two young people. “He’s going to be mean when he wakes up. You two better come with me.”

  There was no argument, and Owen said to Watterson as he turned to go, “If Red gets any ideas about getting even, tell him the next time, I’ll break his neck.”

  “Don’t think he’ll be in shape to do much along those lines, Mr. Stuart.” Watterson grinned. “He’ll be thinking more about his teeth!”

  Owen walked back along the path in silence. Only when he got to the car did he speak again. “What’s your names?”

  The girl had picked up her cap and was stuffing her hair under it. Her dark blue eyes were fixed on him. “My name’s Allie Dupree, and this is my brother Joey.” She eyed the car, and when she turned back to face him, she squinted with suspicion. “Thanks for what you done…but it don’t get you no place with me!”

  Owen studied her thoughtfully. Even the baggy clothing did not conceal her rounded figure, and he sensed her bitter distrust of men—a distrust born of experience, no doubt. She had a square face and a determined chin, but there was nothing masculine about her, for her features were delicate and smooth.

  “Okay.” He shrugged indifferently and moved to crank the car. It started at once, and he got in. “Good luck.”

  But when the car jerked forward, the boy whispered something to the young woman, and she cried out, “Wait!” Owen stopped the car and turned to her, his brow lifted questioningly. “Well…maybe we could use a ride.”

  “Sure. Pile in.” Owen waited until they had scrambled into the front seat, the boy in the middle. “You ever drive one of these things, Joey?” he asked, looking down at the boy, who was a smaller edition of his sister, with the same blond hair and dark blue eyes.

  “No…but I’m going to someday. I’m going to learn to drive and work on automobiles.”

  Owen laughed at the determination in the youthful tone. “Maybe the colonel will let you practice on this one,” he said, the youngster’s eyes moving to meet his instantly. “Well, here we go—”

  Owen had no plan for the pair past getting them out of the hobo camp and away from Bennett. But he saw that they were both hungry and, as soon as they got back to base, he took them into the cook shack. “Couple of visitors, Colonel.”

  That was all it took, for Fletcher could be a generous man. He waved them to a seat, and Owen sat beside Joey, who gulped his food down hungrily, then asked, “Can I go look at the car, mister?”

  “Sure…but don’t start the thing.” Owen smiled. And when the youngster vanished as if by magic, he turned to the boy’s sister. “He sure does like machinery, doesn’t he, Allie?”

  The young woman had eaten with more mannerly reserve than Owen had expected. She was finishing her second piece of pie and now looked over at him, her eyes softer and more vulnerable than before. “I–I’m sorry about what I said…you know, when you offered us a lift.” She bit her underlip in a feminine gesture, adding, “It’s just that…I’ve had to fight off lots of men.”

  Owen nodded. “No offense, Allie. I’m glad I was there to help.” He sipped his milk. “Where do you think you’ll head now?”

  Allie’s shoulders drooped, and she shook her head. Fatigue was evident in every line of her body, and Owen thought he saw her shoulders shaking as if she were crying. Poor kid’s about past going! She can’t be much older than my sister Lenora. He sat there studying the girl, then came to a decision.

  “Look, Allie,” he said, “why don’t I ask the colonel if you can hang around for a few days with the show?” Then he quickly added, “Always lots of work with a show like this. You could earn your bed and board until you get rested up.”

  He watched the girl grow very still and feared at first that he had offended her again. But then she turned to face him, and he saw tears spilling out of her eyes and running down her cheeks. Hastily, she yanked out a dirty handkerchief and wiped them away. Then she cleared her throat and said huskily, “Thank you, Mr. Stuart. I guess…Joey and me are about ready to drop—”

  “Been there myself, Allie,” Owen said. “You have another piece of pie, and I’ll fix it up with Colonel Fletcher.”

  The matter was not hard to arrange, for there was plenty of work, and when Owen assured the owner that the pair would pull their own weight, Fletcher agreed at once. “But they’ll be your responsibility, Owen,” he warned.

  “Go get Joey, Allie,” Owen said when he returned. “I’ll find you a place to sleep.” He saw the relief flare in her eyes, and soon he had located a spot and some bedding.

  He introduced them to the others, who had a cheerful word for the pair. All but Cecily, who stared at Allie with a calculating expression. “Got yourself a lady friend, Owen?” she asked later when she found Owen alone.

  “Oh, Cecily, she’s just a kid!”

  “Oh, yeah? You’re either blind or stupid, Owen Stuart!” she snorted, and whirled around, leaving him puzzled.

  Just before Joey went to sleep, he asked hopefully, “Can we live with these people for a while, Allie?”

  “I hope so, Joey.” She stretched out on the spot and whispered, “Mr. Stuart…he’s a good man, isn’t he, Joey?” But her brother was already asleep, so she closed her eyes and joined him.

  19

  “I’M NOT YOUR SISTER!”

  Allie and Joey quickly made a smooth transition to carnival life. They were both keenly alert, strong, and unafraid of hard work, so that by the end of the second week, they had made a place for themselves with Colonel Fletcher’s troupe.

  Joey proved to be handy with anything mechanical, able to fix almost anything that was broken with little or nothing in the way of tools. He explored every nut and bolt in the few rides the show carried and became adept, not only at setting up and dismantling the rides, but also at patching them together with wire or whatever was handy. He was a bright, cheerful lad and became a favorite almost at once.

  With Allie, it was a little different. She was touchy, especially where men were concerned—a trait that Cecily professed to find hypocritical. “She’s just putting on airs,” the dancer told Owen. “You have to watch that kind more than any other.”

  “Aw, the kid’s had a rough time, Cecily,” Owen said. “I’m glad to see she’s not one of the easy kind.”

  As soon as he made the remark, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. Cecily flared up immediately. “Oh, and I am easy, is that it?” she raged at Owen. But both of them knew she had been exactly that—easy—and without any guilt over their affair.

  Allie never knew that the reason she had little trouble from the hands was because Owen had spoken to each of them with a smile and an implied threat. “I’m responsible for Allie and Joey,” he had explained firmly. “Just thought I’d pass it on, because I’d sure hate to have trouble with any of you guys.” His casual comment was taken seriously, for nobody wanted trouble with Owen Stuart.

  As soon as Allie found that she was safe from unwelcome attention, she relaxed. And when it was discovered that the young woman was an excellent cook, she moved into the role of assistant chef. “Not as good as me, no,” Beaudreau admitted to Colonel Fletcher, “but she is one big help, you bet!”

  Other talents began to emerge as the show rolled on, and soon Allie was busy mending costumes, selling tickets, operating one of the concessions, and doing the less strenuous chores involved in setting up and taking down the equipment.

  Three weeks after the youngsters had joined the show, Owen sought her out one day as she sat outside the sleeping car, sewing a patch on one of his shirts. Looking up quickly, Allie smiled. “Hello, Owen. I’ve got your shirt ready.”

  “You don’t have to work on my old clothes, Allie,” Owen protested, taking the garment. He examined it, then nodded, pleased with the work. “Can’t hardly see the tear! My ma could sew like that.”

  He squatted down beside her, a
nd as they talked, covertly studied the girl. Allie had never worn a dress since joining the show, and he supposed she didn’t own one. Besides, he reasoned, it would have been unwise for a girl to have worn a dress in the hobo jungles, and Owen figured she had deliberately chosen to dress in shapeless men’s clothing to lessen the danger.

  Today, however, a hot August sun was beating down on the parched ground, and Allie had shed the dark coat and rough trousers and was wearing a thin, worn tan cotton shirt and a pair of faded boy’s pants. The youthful curves of her body were startlingly evident to Owen. “How old are you, Allie?”

  Looking up, she saw him staring at her and flushed. “Almost sixteen.” She bit off the thread with sharp white teeth, put the needle and thread into the sewing kit, folded the shirt, then turned her dark blue eyes on him. “Why?”

  “Just wondered.” He looked over to see what Joey was arguing about. The boy was talking to Leo Miller about the merry-go-round, and his voice carried across the distance. “If we cut these rods shorter, Leo, the blamed thing won’t keep breaking down like it always does. Now look—”

  Owen grinned and nodded toward the pair. “Joey’s quite a mechanic, isn’t he?” Then without waiting for an answer, he came out with what he’d come to say. A pleased light was in his eyes, and he turned to watch the girl’s face as he said, “Got a surprise for you, Allie.”

  Allie was immediately on guard. “What is it?” She had been out in the world long enough to consider every offer a man might make as suspect.

  Owen understood this and kept his voice light. “I had a talk with Colonel Fletcher about you and Joey. He’s generous in some ways and tight as a jug in others. I told him the two of you ought to be paid, and after he got through arguing—just out of instinct, I think—he agreed to pay you ten dollars a week, apiece.” He saw Allie’s eyes open wide and was pleased. “Not enough for what you two do—but we’ll negotiate a raise from time to time.”