His next stop was for a much-needed bath. It was his first time to use the facilities of a commercial bathhouse and he did not know what to expect. Back home, his family used a large metal tub, filled with pots of hot water heated on the wood stove. His father had not yet installed a drainpipe, so whatever water was left after everyone bathed had to be removed by buckets and tossed outdoors. That chore usually fell on Gopher’s young shoulders—and he was always the last to use the facility.
The front door was wide open. The heat from the steaming kettles was oppressive and the fresh air circulating through the building kept the heat and humidity down.
The diminutive Chinaman at the counter asked in broken English, “Whatee want?”
“Bath,” Gopher said.
“Ten cent preese.”
Gopher dug deep and coughed up a shiny ten- cent piece. The Chinaman grinned a toothy smile, nodded by bowing slightly and then indicated his newest customer should follow him through parted curtains.
Once inside, Gopher noticed there was no privacy, only a row of tubs on each side of the room. At the far end was a bank of wood stoves, all of them covered with large tubs and buckets.
Through the back door, Gopher could see laundry workers washing and rinsing various garments, mostly sheets and shirts. He couldn’t see them, but he knew there were ropes strung down both sides of the property where drying took place.
At the moment, he was the only bathing customer and he hurried to get ready before any of the older customers came in.
To his amazement, a very attractive young Chinese woman came to help him remove his clothing and assist him in climbing over the edge of the tub she was filling with warm water. At first, he balked at being seen naked by such an attractive woman, but she was insistent and exuded an air of professionalism that assured him she had done this hundreds of times. To her Gopher was nothing more than another bath customer.
Still, he was shy about being seen without clothing. Sure, he and his friends had been skinny-dipping many times in the deep pool at the river but this was different—very different. His thoughts meandered to how he would like it if this woman in front of him were Grenda. Then he thought better of such ridiculous dreams and concentrated on removing the rest of his clothing.
For an additional fee, the young woman indicated his clothes could also be washed but Gopher decided he would tend to scrubbing his socks all by himself.
When it came time to duck under the sudsy water to wash his hair, he worried about his satchel and his clothing. What if that girl took his stuff while he had soap in his eyes? What would he do then? Give chase through the streets of Denver buck-naked?
It was a quick hair and face wash.
When he signaled he was finished, the young attendant offered her hand and a large towel. He took both and stepped unabashed from the warm tub. The wooden planks between each tub allowed the water to drain and promoted a brisk drying off.
The attendant then brought his clothing and laid it over a wooden chair at the foot of the tub. She bowed politely and left the room, assumedly to retake her position on the clotheslines outside.
When Gopher was fully dressed, he actually felt like he was on top of the world. His satchel had not been disturbed and everything was in good order. He strolled out the front door like he was a full-blooded prince and headed for the widow Nielsen’s place, resolving to visit the bathhouse more than once a week, as was the custom back home.
A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
At the dinner table that night, Ellen Nielsen noticed her youngest boarder’s spiffy new jacket. “How nice of you to honor my request for decent attire at suppertime. Thank you, Mister Piddington. You look very nice.”
One of the other two boarders spoke up immediately. “Piddington? That’s an unusual name in these parts. You wouldn’t be kin to one Able Piddington, would you?”
Gopher pondered the man’s question for a moment. He wasn’t sure if he should admit to the accurate observation. In the end, he didn’t think it would do any harm to tell the truth.
“He’s my Father. Why do you ask? And may I inquire as to your name?”
“Name’s Stroud. Just wondrin’—that’s all. Say, you as good as your old man with your dukes—or as good with a shootin’ iron as your ma?”
“No, not nearly as good. But I can hold my own in either case.”
The curious man nodded and said nothing more. Instead he concentrated on slurping a pretty good potato and fatback soup.
Gopher watched the two boarders and how they ate. Then he observed how his benefactor ate. First of all, she didn’t pull the soupspoon toward her; she carefully pushed it away with each filling; her pinky finger crooked just so. That confused him and he wanted in the worst way to ask her why. Three different times he tried loading the spoon in the manner she used and all three times he decided that method was entirely uncoordinated and therefore useless.
When the main course was served, he watched the two older men grab their utensils as if they were ramrods and dig into the meat and potatoes with a vengeance. Even at home, his parents insisted upon eating less like an animal and more like a refined person. This, he understood, and carefully cut small portions and stabbed them with a fork he purposefully and proudly held properly, not like it was a shovel handle.
After supper, Gopher got up to help by removing the plates and utensils. Ellen Nielsen told him it wasn’t necessary, that it was her part of her duty as the hostess.
Gopher countered by informing her that it had been his job, as well, at his father’s restaurant.
“Well now, aren’t you just full of surprises? You know your way around food and you care enough to clean up after yourself. Your parents must be quite proud.”
Gopher blushed, but said nothing.
“Can you cook, as well as clean tables?”
“Ma’am, I pretty much know my way around a cook stove, too—not like my Father, of course, he trained with his Grandfather in London.”
“London, England? Are you sure?”
“Yes ma’am, I was born there.”
“How old were you when you came to this country?”
“Four years old, ma’am.”
“That seems quite young for such a lengthy trip. What have you been doing since then?”
“Getting into trouble seems to come my way now and then. But I’m more grown up now.” He did not want to tell her he was thirteen.
“Yes, I can see that.” The woman leaned over and grasped the lapels on his new jacket. “Very nice. Very nice, indeed.”
Then she was off to the kitchen, where pots of hot water awaited the dinner dishes.
Gopher followed her and put the stack of dirty dishes on the sideboard.
He decided he should take a walk, just like prosperous folk did in the evenings. He thought about strapping his gun around his waist but shelved the urge. He didn’t want to look the part of a slovenly rube.
As he strolled leisurely down one street and up another, he tipped his hat at passersby. He felt quite cosmopolitan.
That night, as he was already in bed with the lamp fully out, a very strange thing happened.
The widow Nielsen knocked lightly and entered his room before he could say it was okay. She carried a kerosene lantern in one hand and a small glass of milk in the other. “After such a long and difficult day I thought a glass of milk would help you to sleep.”
She turned and placed the lamp on the dresser behind her. As she approached his bedside with the milk, he could see through her paper-thin nightgown. Her sumptuous curves were clearly visible. She set the glass down on the side table and, as she had done the previous night, she began carefully tucking the soft comforter around his body.
All the while, Gopher Piddington took in the sight of her curvy body. His mind raced, as he wondered if Grenda was as well endowed.
Then she turned on her heels, took up the lamp and bid him good night. The door clicked behind her. Gopher watched the receding light under the d
oor, as she made her way down the hallway and downstairs to her bedroom.
In the morning, he remembered her bringing the milk and her standing in front of the lamp in her sheer night things. The milk was calming and helped him sleep soundly but he had difficulty awakening while he dressed.
The satchel was still where he left it by the dresser. Everything seemed in order until he looked for his money purse. The coins and folding money and the leather purse containing them were missing. He searched through his bag and clothing again—and again.
The bed yielded nothing, neither in it nor under it. The dresser drawers contained but a single spare towel for the washbasin. The pitcher contained nothing but clear water.
The lone rug in the room lay flat. Nothing was hidden under there, and the chamber pot was empty.
He searched the room high and low but could not find his moneybag anywhere. He checked his pistol and found it intact, the same for his box of bullets. Everything was exactly as he remembered leaving it when he prepared for bed with one exception: he was now destitute.
Dressing quickly, Gopher rushed to get downstairs and confront either the widow Nielsen or one of his fellow boarders.
Neither boarder was in residence. When he asked about them, Ellen said one had checked out before breakfast and the other fellow was out for a stroll in the crisp morning air. “Did you sleep well? I saved some ham and eggs for you.”
Gopher wasn’t at all sure she wasn’t involved, not after how she acted the night before, so he worded his predicament carefully. For all he knew, she may have put something in his milk to help him sleep. “Did the either of them tell you where he was going or when they would return?”
“Why no, Mister Stroud didn’t say a word and I didn’t think to ask. Those traveling salesmen come and go quite regularly. When one territory is saturated they simply move on to another. When Mister Oliveri returns, you might ask him.”
“I intend to.”
Gopher ate his breakfast in silence, but he watched Ellen Nielsen carefully, as if he suspected her of being in on the theft.
When Oliveri did return, Gopher was surprised, as he wouldn’t have put it past him to be involved, either. He was convinced someone doctored his milk.
“Nice morning for a stroll, isn’t it?”
Mister Oliveri responded with a nod.
“Did your friend say where he might be going?”
Mister Oliveri looked puzzled. “The other boarder isn’t my friend and no, he didn’t mention a thing. Why, has he checked out?”
Now Gopher was getting angry. “Yeah, he checked out early this morning with my money!”
Ellen overheard and came into the parlor. “What do you mean he took your money?”
“When I awoke, my moneybag and its contents were gone—that’s what I mean.”
Gopher watched both their faces for any sign that either one of them might have had something to do with his plight. Both looked genuinely astonished.
“Are you sure? Maybe you overlooked a hiding place. After all, you were pretty tired last night and you might have hidden it somewhere, perhaps in some unusual location.”
“I’ve checked everywhere. It’s gone.”
Mister Oliveri and Ellen went upstairs with Gopher to inspect his room. After a thorough search by all three, it was decided that sure enough, Mister Stroud must have liberated a fellow traveler’s money.
Mister Oliveri checked the contents of his room and announced all was in order. “After all,” he said, “That’s what a money belt is for. Nothing missing in my room.”
No one knew where the thief had gone. His horse and wagon were gone, as well. The livery stable attendant was just a boy and his job was to prepare the horse and wagon for the customer and nothing else.
Gopher asked for a policeman but was told that would do no good, as there were a dozen ways in and out of the neighborhood and the wagon left no tracks on the pavers.
For a fee, the stable attendant offered to rent a horse and saddle, but Gopher decided it would be all for naught, especially because he had no idea where to look and no way to pay the bill.
Ellen Nielsen was visibly shaken. “You know, I try to rent only to those fellows I think are above board, but I guess this proves you can never tell a book by its cover.”
Mister Oliveri asked the tough question: “What are you going to do now, son? What are your plans and how are you going to get by? Do you have any job prospects? If I were busier I might be able to hire an assistant but times are tough right now and I haven’t the business to support a helper.”
After a long, awkward silence, Ellen Nielsen offered a way out. “I’ve not had anyone living in this house full time since my Edgar got killed in a mining accident back in ’88. But I’ve been thinking, if I kept a man around here I might be able to take in a few more boarders; maybe a few of those I might not, under ordinary circumstances, take a chance on—you know, with you here for protection and all that.”
Mister Oliveri thought that made pretty good sense. “As for me, I’ve just about run out of territory and will be moving on in the morning.
“Well, Mister Piddington, it looks like you’ve got a roof over your head. Not a bad deal after the blow you’ve just suffered. How much did old Stroud get?”
“Enough to get by,” was all Gopher was willing to say. But deep inside, he was devastated at losing his life’s savings and he openly resolved to keep his pistol close at hand from that moment on.
“Except on Sundays,” Ellen Nielsen said. “I won’t have anyone in this house wearing firearms on Sundays.”
Considering the fact that the remaining boarder, Mister Oliveri was leaving in the morning and he was cleared of any wrongdoing, Gopher offered to assist in preparing the evening meal. “I know how to make my Father’s special sourdough griddle cakes but there isn’t enough time for the yeasts to enter the dough, so they can’t be served for breakfast.”
Instead he offered to show Ellen, as she insisted he call her now, some of the cooking tricks he had learned from his father.
She told him she had always disliked lamb; that it came out tough and chewy. The flavor was good but it simply wasn’t worth all the trouble to prepare it.
Gopher remembered what his father had said about mobility meats; they must be cooked in a liquid and properly seasoned both before and after cooking. And, to remember to sear the meats before wet cooking, so the juices would be sealed in and deep flavors developed.
It gave him an idea. “What if I prepared a nice roast leg of lamb for Mister Oliveri’s last meal? Do you think he would like that?”
Ellen didn’t know or particularly care what the traveling salesman would or wouldn’t like, but she thought it was a great idea, especially if he could pull it off and please her palate. “It would be my pleasure to do the shopping for tonight’s meal, if you would kindly prepare a list of ingredients.”
Gopher said he needed to look at her pantry before creating a list. “If you don’t have the right herbs and spices for the meat, you can’t substitute just anything.”
Actually, Gopher was nearly winging this part of the dinner plan. He had rarely spent any time in the kitchen when the early preparations were underway. But, he recalled a few things that his father always used with lamb: garlic, rosemary, sage and a good red wine for brazing, as well as for serving with the meal.
“The garlic I have and there is wild sage aplenty in these parts, so I’ll run off and pick up some rosemary and a large leg of lamb. Anything else you can think of?”
“Maybe a few apples. They’re pretty good when stuffed with dried fruits, if you’ve got anything dried.”
“I don’t, but I think that kind of thing is available all year long. I’ll see what they have—and I appreciate your input. I’ll be an hour or two. Can you and Mister Oliveri hold down the fort?”
OLIVERI’S LAST SUPPER
Not only was the leg of lamb cooked perfectly, it had wonderful flavor and the juices made a very n
ice gravy for the smashed potatoes. For dessert, the baked apples, filled with chopped, dried apricots rounded out what Mister Oliveri called one of the finest meals he had ever had the pleasure of ingesting. “It is with sad regret that I must leave this home, just as new blood and an unexpected talent has arrived.”
Ellen Nielsen was overjoyed at the wonderful meal. “Now I know why my Grandmother and my Mother served lamb so often. Why, for a time, it was served every Sunday, especially through the spring and summer when the young ones were still tender.”
“The brazing process will tenderize just about any tough meat, young or old. My Father says even tough old roosters benefit from cooking in liquid, especially wine or spirits. You should taste his French-style chicken cooked in red wine. It’s absolutely delicious.”
“Sounds delightful. Let’s put it on the menu right away.”
Gopher realized he was putting himself between a rock and a hard place. Some of the dishes he considered cooking were going to be difficult, if not impossible. He had no practical background or personal experience with many of them.
He wished he had paid attention when his father was offering to show him more about kitchen preparation.
While Ellen was out shopping, Gopher decided to write a letter to his parents outlining some of his adventures. He primarily wanted some of his father’s most cherished recipes but also wanted to share the more delightful of his experiences. He felt no need to mention his rush to find an outhouse or the fact that he was now penniless.
Instead, he concentrated on the positive things and actually created an upbeat letter. Among other things, he told his folks that the hunt for the Fairlie locomotive had become a bit more complicated than he originally thought, but things were looking up, due to the unexpected employment offer at the Ellen Nielsen’s boarding house.
He felt pangs of guilt by not divulging everything, but he told himself if he was going to act like a man in a man’s world, he couldn’t be crying like a momma’s boy every time something went wrong. Besides, he did not want his parents messing around in his adventure, regardless of how much he might need their help and assistance.
The Adventures of Gopher Piddington Page 12