Mamma must have felt a little guilty about not serving the kids cookies for those two days because she made lemonade for all the kids both days. Tom of course took all the credit, saying the lemonade was included in the price of admission. His great brain had made him a fortune in three days.
The failure of the new inventions Papa ordered was always made all the more embarrassing because he bragged about them in advance. The water closet was no exception. Everybody in town knew about it long before it arrived.
Nels Larson was stationmaster, ticket agent, telegrapher, express agent, and freight agent at the railroad depot. He never delivered any express or freight except the things Papa ordered. Mr. Larson would simply telephone people and tell them they had express or freight shipments at the depot and to come and get them. But his curiosity always got the best of him when anything came for Papa. When the water closet arrived, he went home and got his own team and wagon to make the delivery. He told his wife the water closet had come. Mrs. Larson got right on the telephone to spread the news all over town.
By the time Mr. Larson had returned to the depot and loaded the crates containing the water closet, his wife had let everybody know that today was the day. Mr. Larson was a middle-aged man with blond hair and a light complexion stemming from his Swedish heritage. He always walked leaning forward as if walking into a strong wind and rode on the seat of his wagon the same way. He drove the team from the depot right down Main Street, with people leaving their places of business and homes to follow him. When he stopped in front of our house, there were about two hundred men, women, and children in the street. Mamma took one look out the bay window in the parlor and telephoned Papa at the Advocate office. Mr. Larson was poised over a wooden crate with a hammer in his right hand, right in the middle of Main Street, when Papa arrived.
“What in the name of Jupiter do you think you are doing?” Papa demanded. “Make the delivery in the rear.”
“Nothing in the rules, Fitz, says I’ve got to make deliveries in the rear,” Mr. Larson said.
“You don’t have to open the crates right in the middle of Main Street,” Papa said.
“Rules and regulations say I’ve got to inspect the merchandise for damage,” Mr. Larson said.
“You know very well, Nels,” Papa said testily, “the only time you ever inspect anything is when the shipment is for me.”
“Ain’t nothing interesting in the others,” Mr. Larson said.
“Now you listen to me, Nels,” Papa said, his dark eyes flaming with anger. “I will not permit you to make a spectacle of my water closet in the middle of Main Street.”
“And you listen to me, Fitz,” Mr. Larson said, pointing his hammer at Papa. “It is my job to inspect the merchandise for damage and that is just what I intend to do. Don’t want you blaming the railroad or the express company because this crazy contraption doesn’t work.”
“What makes you so certain it won’t work?” Papa asked, glaring at the stationmaster.
“None of those other new-fangled inventions you ordered worked,” Mr. Larson answered, putting Papa in his place.
“Go ahead and open it,” Papa said in complete defeat.
The first crate Mr. Larson opened contained the copper-lined water tank, which he placed on exhibition on top of the crate. He stepped back and eyed it critically.
“Can’t figure out what that is for,” he said.
“Are you satisfied it isn’t damaged?” Papa said as if trying to control his temper. “If so, I assure you that Mr. Harvey and I will know what it is for.” Then Papa folded his arms on his chest like a martyr. “Since you are bound and determined to hold a public unveiling of my water closet in the middle of Main Street, please get on with it.”
“No reason to get sore,” Mr. Larson said indignantly, “just because a man is doing his job according to the rules and regulations.’
The next crate contained the big brass pipe that we later learned connected the water tank near the ceiling to the bowl on the floor. Mr. Larson held it up as if it were a spyglass.
“You’ve been swindled again,” he said to Papa as he laid the pipe down.
Papa was positively fuming as Mr. Larson opened the next crate which contained the porcelain bowl. Mr. Larson placed it like a trophy on top of the crate for all to see.
“It is beginning to make sense,” Mr. Larson had to admit, “but that bowl is plumb too big for kids.”
“Just determine if it is damaged and get on with it,” Papa said, so angry he turned his back on Mr. Larson.
It wasn’t until the stationmaster removed the wooden toilet seat that his skepticism began to vanish. He held it in front of his face as if it were a picture frame, as he slowly turned around for all to see.
“This is the thing-a-mah-bob you sit on!” he shouted as if making a great discovery.
There were many ohs and ahs from the crowd who were used to sitting on boards with holes cut in them.
Papa then sent me to fetch Mr. Harvey. I thought from the way Papa’s jaws were puffed up that he would explode before I returned with the plumber, but he didn’t. Mr. Harvey and I arrived just as the public unveiling of our water closet on Main Street came to a close.
Mr. Harvey pushed Mr. Larson to one side and began searching through the crates until he found a big brown envelope containing the instructions for assembling the water closet. Then his and Papa’s troubles began. Every man, woman, and child who could get their hands on any part of the water closet as it was being carried to our bathroom thought their help entitled them to remain and watch it being assembled.
“Make everybody clear out of here,” Mr. Harvey said to Papa as he plunked his tool case down on the bathroom floor. “Can’t do a blooming thing with all these people hanging around in here.”
Papa asked everybody to leave. Nobody budged an inch until Papa promised they could all see the water closet and how it worked after it was assembled. He even made Sweyn, Tom, and me leave.
The crowd broke up into small groups in our backyard and on our front lawn. They spoke in hushed whispers as people do at funerals. I wandered from group to group, listening. The more I listened, the more humiliated I became.
“Wouldn’t want one of those things in my house,” I heard Dave Teller, the shoemaker, telling a small group. “It is bound to stink up the whole house.”
“Not only the house,” Mr. Carter, who worked at the creamery, said, “but the whole neighborhood if that cesspool caves in during a rain storm.”
My friend Howard Kay didn’t help matters as he sidled up to me as if ashamed of being seen with me.
“Gosh, John,” he whispered, “folks are saying your pa has gone plumb loco putting a backhouse in your bathroom.” He put his fingers to his nose. “Phewee! I’d hate to be living in your house.”
It was too much for me. I held back tears of humiliation until I’d run upstairs to the room I shared with Tom. I flung myself on the bed and began to cry. I had always been proud of Papa in spite of him buying crazy inventions that didn’t work. But this time he’d gone too far. He had done what Aunt Bertha said he would do. He had made us Fitzgeralds the laughing stock of Adenville. Nobody would come to our house anymore. How could Mamma entertain the Ladies Sewing Circle in a house that smelled like a backhouse? It would be the same as entertaining in our old backhouse. I visualized callers at our house stopping at the front gate and putting clothespins on their noses before entering our home.
I don’t know for how long I lay there crying with shame before I heard a terrifying clanging and banging as if somebody had dropped a lot of pans and kettles off our roof. I dropped to my knees. I was positive the water closet had exploded.
“Please, God, spare my Papa,” I prayed.
Then I ran downstairs. I expected to find Mamma hysterical with grief and Papa and Mr. Harvey blown to kingdom come. Instead I found Mamma and Aunt Bertha in the kitchen making plattersful of sandwiches. I ran into the bathroom. Papa and Mr. Harvey were standing lookin
g at the installed water closet with smug expressions on their faces. The porcelain bowl was bolted to the floor in one corner of the room that had been partitioned off. The wooden seat had been attached to it. The water tank was fastened to the wall near the ceiling, with a water pipe running up to it. The big brass pipe was connected to the water tank and the bowl. There was a brass chain attached to the water tank, with a wooden handle on it.
“One more time to make sure,” Papa said to Mr. Harvey.
I watched Mr. Harvey pull on the chain. There was a clanging sound and then water rushed down the brass pipe from the water tank into the porcelain bowl, filling it up, and then suddenly the water in the bowl disappeared.
“She is ready and rarin’ to go,” Mr. Harvey said, and for the first time in my life I saw him smile.
It was surely a miracle invention, but there was one thing I had to know.
“Will it stink?” I asked.
“No, J.D.,” Papa answered. “The water level in the bowl will keep any air or odor from coming up from the cesspool.”
I was so happy that I felt like doing a jig as I followed Papa to the back porch. I watched Papa clasp his hands behind his back and teeter on his heels.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Papa announced to the crowd. “l am pleased to report that Mr. Harvey and I have successfully installed the first water closet in Adenville. You will be admitted in small groups of not more than six at a time. Mr. Harvey will explain the mechanism of the water closet and how it works. He will also give each group a demonstration. As you leave please pass through the kitchen where Mrs. Fitzgerald will serve refreshments.”
I was lucky that I’d seen the water closet because none of the kids got a chance to see it. Grown-ups pushed the kids aside, including Tom and Sweyn. By the time all the grown-ups had seen the water closet it was suppertime. A howl of protest went up from the kids, but their parents made them go home.
My brother Tom must have immediately put his great brain to work on how to capitalize on this because the next morning he told me to follow him to the barn.
“Run down to the Z.C.M.I. store and get me a cardboard box,” he said as we entered the barn. “I’ll need a piece of cardboard to make a sign.”
I was curious as all get out when I returned with a cardboard box that had contained cans of condensed milk. I watched fascinated as Tom used his jacknife to cut out one side of the box. Then he laid the piece of cardboard on a bale of hay and took a package of crayons from his pocket. My admiration for his great brain turned to complete awe as I read the sign he printed on the piece of cardboard.
SEE THE MAGIC WATER CLOSET THAT DOESN’T STINK
ADMISSION ONE PENNY CASH
NO PROMISES OR CREDIT
Tom then picked up a stick, after punching two holes in the piece of cardboard. He tied the sign to the stick with twine.
“Now, J.D.,” he said, “I want to hire you to be a barker , and make a pitch for my new business venture.”
“Barker?” I asked, not knowing what the word meant. “And what is pitch?”
“Remember last summer when Colonel Sheaffer’s Medicine Show came to town?” Tom asked.
I nodded.
“Remember how Colonel Sheaffer stood on the tailgate of his medicine-show wagon, with the Indian he had with him beating on a tom-tom and the Colonel making a speech? Well, I asked the Colonel about it, and he told me that to attract a crowd you have to have a barker and make a pitch. I want you to be the barker and make a pitch to attract a crowd of kids for my new business venture.”
“What is in it for me?” I asked.
“I’ll give you ten per cent of the gross receipts,” he answered.
“What are gross receipts?” I asked.
“All the money we take in,” Tom answered. “You get one penny for every ten pennies I collect.”
“It’s a deal,” I said gratefully.
Tom handed me the sign. Then he walked over and picked up the cowbell we put on our milk cow when we let her out to pasture. He handed the cowbell to me.
“We don’t have a tom-tom like Colonel Sheaffer’s Indian,” he said. “Use the cowbell instead.” His freckled face suddenly became solemn. “Sometimes my great brain almost scares me,” he said. “I’ll be a millionaire before I’m old enough to vote.” Then his face broke into a grin. “Off you go, J.D. Ring the bell and make your pitch on Main Street, in front of our house.”
I took up my station as barker in front of our house. I rang the cowbell and made my pitch.
“See the magic water closet that doesn’t stink!” I shouted as I rang the cowbell. “Only one penny to see the magic water closet!”
Colonel Sheaffer was right. All you needed was a barker to make a pitch to attract a crowd. Kids came running from every part of town. I soon had kids lined up all the way from our front gate and around the side of the house to our back porch, where Tom was busily collecting a penny from each kid to see the water closet. My brother and I were on the verge of making a financial killing when I saw Mamma coming down Main Street. I knew she had gone to spend the morning with Mrs. Taylor who was ill. Here she was coming home and it wasn’t even ten o’clock. I gave her a big smile as I rang the cowbell and made my pitch.
“See the magic water closet that doesn’t stink!” I shouted. “Only one penny to see the magic water closet.”
“John Dennis, come with me,” Mamma said sharply.
I knew she was angry about something when she called me by my full name. She never called us boys by our full names unless she was angry with us. I followed her around the side of the house to the back porch. Tom flashed us both a triumphant grin as he collected pennies from kids before admitting them to the bathroom.
“Tom Dennis, come into the kitchen,” Mamma said sternly.
One thing I loved about Mamma. When she was angry with us, she never scolded us in front of other kids. Tom and I followed her into the kitchen.
Aunt Bertha identified herself as the tattletale as we entered the kitchen. “I thought it best to telephone you, Tena,” she said.
“And it is a good thing you did,” Mamma said, placing her hands on her hips.
Calling Tom and me by our full names was bad enough, but I knew Mamma was just as angry as she could be when she placed her hands on her hips.
“Tom Dennis and John Dennis, I am thoroughly ashamed of you both,” Mamma said.
“You should only be ten per cent ashamed of me,” I defended myself. “I’m just the barker and only get ten per cent of the gross receipts.”
“To take part in anything that is wrong even one per cent,” Mamma reprimanded, “is just as bad as one hundred per cent.”
Tom folded his arms on his chest. “What is wrong with using my great brain to make money?” he demanded.
“You heard your father say yesterday that everybody would be admitted to see the water closet,” Mamma said. “I do not recall your father saying only adults would be admitted free and children would be charged a penny. Now, hand me those crayons in your hip pocket.”
Tom reluctantly handed Mamma the box of crayons. Then Mamma took the sign away from me. I was horrified when she used a red crayon to draw a line through the words ONE PENNY and printed the word FREE instead on the sign. Then she handed the sign back to me.
“Now John Dennis,” she said to me, “let me see you put the same amount of enthusiasm into your barking, as you call it, and ringing the cowbell as you were putting into it a few minutes ago.”
“Papa isn’t going to like this one bit,” Tom said. “Papa says it is brains that count and not muscles. When he finds out you made me give up a good money-making scheme my great brain thought up, he is going to be mighty angry with you, Mamma. You just wait and see.”
“When your father comes home,” Mamma said, not in the least cowed by Tom’s threats, “I’ll have him explain to you the difference between an honest business transaction and swindling your friends. And now that I think of it, you must have charged
admission for letting your friends watch Mr. Harvey dig the cesspool.”
“Papa didn’t say anything about letting everybody watch Mr. Harvey dig the cesspool for nothing,” Tom said. “And all the customers were completely satisfied.”
“Your customers are going to be more than satisfied,” Mamma said. “Now just march yourself out to the back porch and refund not only all the pennies you collected this morning, but also all the money you collected for letting your friends watch Mr. Harvey dig the cesspool.”
‘”But Mamma…” Tom started to protest.
“You heard me, Tom Dennis,” Mamma said, interrupting him.
Tom didn’t have to wait until Papa came home to learn the difference between an honest business transaction and a swindle. He refunded all the pennies he’d collected for letting kids watch Mr. Harvey dig the cesspool and see the magic water closet, and there were still twenty kids in line waiting for refunds. I followed Tom into the kitchen.
“Mamma,” he said indignantly, “there are a bunch of cheaters out there. I refunded all the money I collected, and do you know what, Mamma?”
“What?” Mamma asked.
“There are still twenty kids demanding refunds,” Tom said with a wave of his hand toward the back porch.
“That will teach you a lesson,” Mamma said as if she enjoyed seeing her own flesh and blood defrauded. “You will just have to take twenty cents out of your bank.”
Tom’s cheeks swelled up in protest, but he knew there was no appeal from one of Mamma’s decisions. When the last kid had been paid off on the back porch, Tom put his hand on my shoulder.
“J.D. old partner,” he said, “we took a twenty-cent loss on this business venture because some of those kids went back to the end of the line and got paid twice. There is no hurry making good your half of the loss, but it is always best in business to settle these things immediately. We will go get the ten cents you owe me from your bank right now, partner.”
The Great Brain Page 2