The Great Brain Does It Again

by John D. Fitzgerald

  “Maybe not in a quarter-of-a-mile race,” Tom said. “But I don’t believe Blaze could run a mile, let alone win a mile-long race.”

  Parley pushed his coonskin cap to the back of his head. “Blaze wasn’t even puffing after he beat Cleo Saturday,” he said. “A quarter of a mile is just exercise for him.”

  “I’d be willing to bet,” Tom said, “that Sweyn’s mustang Dusty can beat Blaze in a mile-long race.”

  “That old crowbait,” Parley said disdainfully. “He must be nine or ten years old.”

  “He is eight years old,” Tom said. “And I’ll bet that ‘old crowbait,’ as you call him, can beat your Blaze in a mile-long race anytime.”

  “How much do you want to bet?” Parley asked, smiling confidently. “And when do you want to race?”

  “Bet whatever you want,” Tom said, “and that goes for the rest of you fellows. We’ll race next Saturday morning after chores. Now let’s forget about horse racing and play some scrub football.”

  * * *

  Tom gave Dusty a double helping of oats that evening. He also gave him a double helping for the next four days. And every day after school he went to the fairgrounds and raced Dusty around the track four times to get him in shape for the race.

  Saturday morning there were a couple dozen kids waiting at the fairgrounds when we arrived riding Dusty double. We dismounted. Tom handed me a paper sack. He took a notebook and pencil from his pocket.

  “You fellows who want to bet line up,” Tom said. “I’ll write down your names and the amount of the bet. Put your money in the sack and I’ll cover it with money from my pocket. I’m betting Dusty can beat Blaze in a mile-long race, which is four times around the track.”

  Tom was the only one who believed it, including me. The fellows got in line. Tom took and covered all their bets, from a nickel to half a dollar which Parley bet. Most of the kids bet a quarter. I knew there was close to ten dollars in the paper bag after all bets were made and Tom had covered them. Tom handed me the notebook and pencil.

  “Danny, you act as starter,” he said.

  Tom got on Dusty and Parley on Blaze. They lined up at the starting pole. Danny counted to three and the race was on. Blaze pulled away from Dusty after only about a hundred feet. When Blaze finished the first lap, Dusty was only halfway around going at a steady gallop. The kids cheered Parley as he passed. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Tom.

  On the second lap Tom was still behind about a third of the distance around the track. But on the third lap he began to gain and was only a few hundred feet behind as they passed the starting pole. I could see Blaze was tiring and slowing down, but he was still game. Tom passed Parley on Blaze at the halfway mark in the fourth lap. Dusty was running at that same steady gallop but Blaze had slowed down and was falling behind. Parley knew he was beaten when he hit the stretch with Tom about ten lengths in front of him. He used his quirt but Tom won the race by more than thirty lengths.

  Tom stopped Dusty after crossing the finishing line. He jumped off and patted the mustang on the neck. Dusty was puffing but not too hard. Tom walked over and took the bag of money from me. Parley rode up on Blaze and dismounted. The quarter horse was heaving and was covered with lather and sweat.

  “What do you think of this old crowbait now?” Tom asked, grinning.

  Parley shook his head. “I should have known better than to bet you fifty cents,” he said. “Pa has often said a mustang can run any other horse into the ground.”

  Danny Forester pushed his way up in front of Parley. “You told us to bet on you because you knew you couldn’t lose,” he said.

  Then a rather strange thing took place. The kids who had lost money betting all crowded around Parley and blamed him. I say strange because usually when Tom won a bet they all crowded around him accusing him of swindling them or something.

  “Know something, J. D.?” Tom said to me. “Seeing the fellows arguing with Parley has given me an idea.”

  He walked over to the group. “I don’t blame you fellows for being angry at Parley,” he said. “He should have won the race.”

  All the kids looked flabbergasted. Parley was the first to speak.

  “The only way I could have won the race,” he said, “would have been if Dusty had broken a leg.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Tom said. “I’d be willing to bet that I could beat you with me riding Blaze and you riding Dusty. It will give you and the other fellows a chance to win back the money you lost.”

  Parley looked angry. “What is this, a joke?” he demanded.

  “No joke,” Tom said. “We’ll give both horses a rest until two o’clock this afternoon. Then I’ll take all bets.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Parley said. “You’ll take Dusty home and fill him so full of oats and hay and water he won’t be able to run.”

  “You can take Dusty home with you,” Tom said, “and I’ll take Blaze with me. Any of you fellows who want to bet be here at two o’clock.”

  I figured Tom’s great brain had blown a fuse. There was no way Blaze could beat Dusty in a mile-long race.

  “You are a fool,” I said as we rode Blaze home.

  “You sound as if you don’t believe Blaze can beat Dusty in a mile race,” Tom said.

  “I just got through seeing that he couldn’t,” I said.

  “Then put your money where your mouth is,” Tom said.

  I figured Tom had suddenly come down with brain fever or something. It was a golden opportunity to get even for some of the bets I’d lost to him.

  “Bet you half a dollar,” I said.

  “It’s a bet,” Tom said.

  * * *

  It looked as if every kid in town was at the fairgrounds when we arrived that afternoon. Tom handed me a paper bag and got out his notebook and pencil.

  “Line up,” he said. “I’m betting that Blaze can beat Dusty in a mile-long race with me riding Blaze and Parley riding Dusty.”

  Tom had plenty of takers. Kids who had only bet a nickel that morning now bet a dime. Kids who had bet a dime now bet a quarter. And kids who had bet a quarter now bet half a dollar. I knew there had to be more than fifteen dollars in the paper bag after the last bet was made.

  Danny acted as starter. It was the same race we had seen that morning on the first lap around the track. Tom passed the starting pole while Parley on Dusty was only halfway around the track. But right then it became a different race. Tom slowed Blaze down to a walk and just let the horse walk and get its wind until Parley caught up with them. Then Tom laid the quirt on Blaze. Parley was a third of the way behind on the second lap. Again Tom slowed Blaze to a walk and waited for Parley to catch up. Then around they went again. This time Parley was behind about one-fourth of the way around the track when Tom passed the starting pole. Again Tom slowed Blaze down to a walk. This time he not only waited until Parley caught up with him, he let Parley get a few hundred feet in front before he gave Blaze the quirt. He overtook Parley when they reached the stretch. Both horses came thundering down the stretch with Blaze slowly pulling ahead. Blaze wasn’t running as fast as the first times around the track but he was going fast enough to win the race by about five lengths. But did the fellows think Tom had won fair and square? Heck no.

  Parley jumped off Dusty. “You cheated,” he shouted. “You slowed Blaze down to a walk after each lap and let him get his wind again.”

  Danny nodded. “Parley is right,” he said. “In a horse race a horse is supposed to run, not walk.”

  “Hold it on that cheating stuff,” Tom said, “or somebody is going to get a bloody nose and a black eye. The bet was that I could beat Parley in a mile race. Both horses covered the distance of a mile and I won the race. If Parley had done what I did this morning he would have won. And I’ll bet you fellows wouldn’t have said anything about cheating then.”

  I could tell from the looks on the fellows’ faces that they knew Tom was right. They all went home sadder and poorer. I rode double on Dust
y with Tom to our barn. He put the bag of coins on a bale of hay. We unsaddled Dusty and gave the mustang a good rubdown. Then Tom sat down on the bale of hay and counted the money in the bag. He had a big grin on his face when he finished. Counting the money he had won that morning, he had taken the fellows for more than thirteen dollars. But did that satisfy him? Heck no.

  “Before we start doing the evening chores,” he said, “let’s go up to our bedroom so you can get that half-dollar you owe me.”

  “I know one thing for sure,” I said. “I hope I get typhoid fever and die if I ever make another bet with you.”

  “Papa and Mamma will see to it that you have a nice funeral,” Tom said. “But, seriously, J. D., you should be grateful that I keep winning bets from you.”

  “What’s there to be grateful for about me losing money to you?” I asked.

  Tom put a hand on my shoulder. “I just bet you now and then to teach you a lesson so you won’t turn out to be a gambling man,” Tom said. “When I get through with you, you will never bet or gamble.”

  “And neither will any other kid in town,” I said, “because they won’t have any money to gamble with when they grow up. You’ll have it all.”

  I don’t know why that made Tom laugh. I didn’t think it was funny at all. I meant every word of it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tom and the Dude

  WITH CHRISTMAS COMING UP Tom temporarily gave up his swindling ways after winning all that money on the horse race. My oldest brother, Sweyn, was coming home for the Christmas holidays. We all went down to the depot to meet him.

  When Sweyn left to go back east for his first year of high school, he was wearing a blue serge worsted suit with knee-length britches and a cap like all boys in Adenville wore until they were sixteen. A fellow didn’t get a pair of long pants until he was sixteen. But when Sweyn, who was only fifteen, returned home, he had blossomed out into a full-blown dude. He was wearing a light-gray checkered cassimere wool suit with long pants, shoes without laces that you pulled on, a derby hat, a blue-and-white striped corded front shirt, a purple necktie with a handkerchief to match in the breast pocket of the suit, and silk embroidered suspenders, all the likes of which had never been seen in Adenville, and maybe not even in all of Utah.

  You can bet that Tom, Frankie, and I held our heads down with shame as we walked towards home. People on the street turned around to stare at my oldest brother, peeked out of windows, and came out of stores to watch. It was a sight never seen before in Adenville, a full-blown dude walking down Main Street. I had never felt so humiliated in my life.

  Sweyn had arrived on the eleven o’clock morning train on Monday, December the 19th. He would be home for ten days. Boy, oh, boy, the thought of having the fellows see my big sissy dude brother with his fancy duds for ten days was enough to make me want to run away from home. It was bad enough when Sweyn had disgraced us by starting to go with a girl at the age of thirteen. And now at the age of fifteen he had turned into a real sissy dude.

  Sweyn was in such a hurry to show off his fancy duds to his girl, Marie Vinson, that he excused himself from the table as soon as we finished lunch. He got his derby hat from the hallway hat rack and came back into the dining room.

  “Adieu and toodle-oo,” he said with a wave of the derby.

  Tom stood up. “And a cockle-doodle-doo to you,” he said, flapping his arms as if they were the wings of a rooster.

  That made everybody but Sweyn laugh.

  “Enfant,” he said and then left.

  Tom sat back down at the table and looked at Papa. “What is that ‘adieu,’ ‘toodle-oo,’ and ‘enfant’ business?” he asked.

  “Your brother is just showing off some of the French he learned during his first term in high school,” Papa replied. “Adieu means goodbye and enfant is French for infant.”

  “I’ll infant him,” Tom said frowning. “And what about that ‘toodle-oo’? What kind of an insult is that?”

  “It isn’t an insult,” Papa said, chuckling. “It is a rather common expression back east like we say so long out west.”

  Tom shook his head. “Are you and Mamma going to let Sweyn run around Adenville wearing those fancy duds and giving people that ‘adieu’ and ‘toodle-oo’ business?”

  “Why not?” Papa asked.

  “I’ll tell you why not,” Tom said. “People will think he has turned into an eighteen-karat sissy for sure.”

  “Don’t be too hard on your brother,” Papa said. “It is a phase every boy goes through during his first year of high school.”

  “Not me,” Tom said. “If I have to wear fancy duds like that to go to high school in Pennsylvania next year, I’m not going.”

  “You will change your mind when you get there,” Papa said. “All things, including clothing, are relative to time and place.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Tom asked.

  “Well,” Papa said smiling, “I wouldn’t walk down Main Street and go to work at the Advocate office wearing my nightshirt because it is the wrong time and place to wear a nightshirt. But it is perfectly proper to wear my nightshirt to bed because that is the time and place for it.”

  That made us all laugh.

  “Seriously, T. D.,” Papa said, “you would be just as much out of place wearing clothing suitable for Adenville at high school back in Boylestown, Pennsylvania, as your brother is wearing his eastern clothing here in Adenville.”

  “Then why don’t you make him stop wearing those fancy duds while he is home?” Tom asked.

  “Let him enjoy himself by showing off his new wardrobe to his girl,” Papa said.

  “Maybe Sweyn will enjoy himself,” Tom said, “but J. D., Frankie, and I sure won’t. The fellows will really make fun of us for having a sissy dude for a brother.”

  * * *

  After lunch Eddie Huddle came over to play with Frankie. I sat on the railing of our corral fence with Tom.

  “Why are we sitting here?” I asked. “It’s Christmas vacation. Let’s go to Smith’s vacant lot and play with the fellows.”

  “I don’t feel like listening to the fellows rub salt in our wounds because we’ve got a sissy dude brother,” Tom said. “I’m going up to my loft and put my great brain to work on how to make Sweyn stop wearing those fancy duds while he is home.”

  I didn’t want to just sit on our corral fence for my Christmas vacation. I decided to heck with it and went to Smith’s vacant lot. Tom was sure right. All the fellows stopped playing and crowded around me. Parley pushed his coonskin cap to the back of his head.

  “Who was that fancy pants your family met at the train this morning?” he asked.

  “You know darn well it was my brother Sweyn,” I said.

  Danny Forester grinned. “I’ll bet he uses perfume,” he said.

  Seth Smith nodded. “And pomade on his hair,” he said.

  Hal Evans got in his licks. “If I had a sissy dude brother like that,” he said, “I’d go hide in the mountains and become a hermit.”

  Seth patted my shoulder. “I feel sorry for you and Tom,” he said. “It must run in the family. That means both you and Tom will become sissies and dudes when you are fifteen.”

  “We will not,” I said. “Tom is up in his loft right now putting his great brain to work on how to make Sweyn get rid of all those fancy duds.”

  I thought they would leave me alone after that but they didn’t. They kept making disparaging remarks about Sweyn until I got disgusted and went home. I waited for Tom until he came down from his loft to help with the evening chores.

  “Boy, oh, boy,” I said. “You were sure right. The fellows let me have it with both barrels until I couldn’t stand it anymore and came home. Did your great brain figure anything out yet?”

  “Not yet,” Tom said. “But it will. I’m not going to let Sweyn spoil our Christmas vacation.”

  “If your great brain doesn’t do something,” I said, “I’m going to pretend I’m sick and stay in bed for the whole C
hristmas vacation.”

  * * *

  That evening Sweyn went up to his room. He didn’t come down until Mamma and Aunt Bertha had finished the supper dishes. He had on a brand-new dude outfit. He was wearing white flannel trousers, a thing he called a blazer that was like a coat only it was made from light material that had big red and white stripes on it, and he was carrying a straw hat in one hand and a tennis racket in the other hand.

  Tom stared at him bug-eyed. “Have you gone plumb loco?” he asked. “There aren’t any tennis courts in Adenville and you can’t play tennis in the dark anyway.”

  “I promised Marie that I’d show her my tennis outfit,” Sweyn said. “And if I do say so myself, I learned to play a very good game of tennis back east. And next summer I’m going to get some young fellows together and build us a tennis court here in Adenville.”

  “But you can’t go walking down Main Street in that outfit,” Tom said. “People will think you are crazy wearing white flannel trousers and a straw hat and carrying a tennis racket in the middle of winter.”

  “You’re just jealous of my outfit,” Sweyn said.

  “How can I be jealous of a jackass?” Tom asked. Then he turned to Papa. “Please stop him. He’ll make us the laughingstock of Adenville.”

  But Papa just smiled. “I think you are making a mountain lion out of a kitten,” he said.

  Mamma agreed. “And so do I,” she said. “And Sweyn D., you do look very nice.”

  Sweyn gave us a wave with his straw hat. “Toodle-oo, everybody,” he said as he left.

  Right on the spot I decided not to show my face outside the house until Sweyn went back to high school. Some of the fellows were sure to see him and boy, oh, boy, would they rub it in. I continued playing checkers with Frankie, but he beat me because I didn’t have my mind on the game. Tom was reading a book, but I knew his mind wasn’t on what he was doing either. Then Mamma spoke.

  “The ragbag is almost full, Bertha,” she said. “I think we should start making another patch quilt.”

  Aunt Bertha looked up from the sock she was darning. “Can’t start tomorrow,” she said. “The Ladies Sewing Circle meets, remember?”