The Fourth R

by George O. Smith

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Jimmy had less scout work to do and no school to attend; he was too smallto help in the sorting of car parts and too valuable to be tossed out. Hewas in the way.

  So he was in Jake's office when the mail came. He brought the bundle toJake's desk and sat on a box, sorting the circulars and catalogs from thefirst class. Halfway down the pile was a long envelope addressed to_Jimmy James_.

  He dropped the rest with a little yelp. Jake eyed him quickly andsnatched the letter out of Jimmy's hands.

  "Hey! That's mine!" said Jimmy. Jake shoved him away.

  "Who's writing you?" demanded Jake.

  "It's mine!" cried Jimmy.

  "Shut up!" snapped Jake, unfolding the letter. "I read _all_ the mailthat comes here first."

  "But--"

  "Shut your mouth and your teeth'll stay in," said Jake flatly. Heseparated a green slip from the letter and held the two covered while heread. "Well, well," he said. "Our little Shakespeare!" With a disdainfulgrunt Jake tossed the letter to Jimmy.

  Eagerly, Jimmy took the letter and read:

  Dear Mr. James:

  We regret the unconscionable length of time between your submission and this reply. However, the fact that this reply is favorable may be its own apology. We are enclosing a check for $20.00 with the following explanation:

  Our policy is to reject all work written in dialect. At the best we request the author to rewrite the piece in proper English and frame his effect by other means. Your little story is not dialect, nor is it bad literarily, the framework's being (as it is) a fairly good example of a small boy's relating in the first person one of his adventures, using for the first time his father's typewriter. But you went too far. I doubt that even a five-year-old would actually make as many typographical errors.

  However, we found the idea amusing, therefore our payment. One of our editors will work your manuscript into less-erratic typescript for eventual publication.

  Please continue to think of us in the future, but don't corn up your script with so many studied blunders.

  Sincerely, Joseph Brandon, editor, Boy's Magazine.

  "Gee," breathed Jimmy, "a check!"

  Jake laughed roughly. "Shakespeare," he roared. "Don't corn up yourstuff! You put too many errors in! Wow!"

  Jimmy's eyes began to burn. He had no defense against this sarcasm. Hewanted praise for having accomplished something, instead of raucouslaughter.

  "I wrote it," he said lamely.

  "Oh, go away!" roared Jake.

  Jimmy reached for the check.

  "Scram," said Jake, shutting his laughter off instantly.

  "It's mine!" cried Jimmy.

  Jake paused, then laughed again. "Okay, smart kid. Take it and spend it!"He handed the check to Jimmy Holden.

  Jimmy took it quickly and left.

  He wanted to eye it happily, to gloat over it, to turn it over and overand to read it again and again; but he wanted to do it in private.

  He took it with him to the nearest bank, feeling its folded bulk andrunning a fingernail along the serrated edge.

  He re-read it in the bank, then went to a teller's window. "Can you cashthis, please?" he asked.

  The teller turned it over. "It isn't endorsed."

  "I can't reach the desk to sign it," complained Jimmy.

  "Have you an account here?" asked the teller politely.

  "Well, no sir."

  "Any identification?"

  "No--no sir," said Jimmy thoughtfully. Not a shred of anything did hehave to show who he was under either name.

  "Who is this Jimmy James?" asked the teller.

  "Me. I am."

  The teller smiled. "And you wrote a short story that sold to _Boy'sMagazine_?" he asked with a lifted eyebrow. "That's pretty good for alittle guy like you."

  "Yes sir."

  The teller looked over Jimmy's head; Jimmy turned to look up at one ofthe bank's policemen. "Tom, what do you make of this?"

  The policeman shrugged. He stooped down to Jimmy's level. "Where did youget this check, young fellow?" he asked gently.

  "It came in the mail this morning."

  "You're Jimmy James?"

  "Yes sir." Jimmy Holden had been called that for more than half a year;his assent was automatic.

  "How old are you, young man?" asked the policeman kindly.

  "Five and a half."

  "Isn't that a bit young to be writing stories?"

  Jimmy bit his lip. "I wrote it, though."

  The policeman looked up at the teller with a wink. "He can tell a goodyarn," chuckled the policeman. "Shouldn't wonder if he could write one."

  The teller laughed and Jimmy's eyes burned again. "It's mine," heinsisted.

  "If it's yours," said the policeman quietly, "we can settle it fastenough. Do your folks have an account here?"

  "No sir."

  "Hmmm. That makes it tough."

  Brightly, Jimmy asked, "Can I open an account here?"

  "Why, sure you can," said the policeman. "All you have to do is to bringyour parents in."

  "But I want the money," wailed Jimmy.

  "Jimmy James," explained the policeman with a slight frown to the teller,"we can't cash a check without positive identification. Do you know whatpositive identification means?"

  "Yes sir. It means that you've got to be sure that this is me."

  "Right! Now, those are the rules. Now, of course, you don't look likethe sort of young man who would tell a lie. I'll even bet your realname is Jimmy James, Jr. But you see, we have no proof, and our bosswill be awful mad at us if we break the rules and cash this check withoutfollowing the rules. The rules, Jimmy James, aren't to delay nice, honestpeople, but to stop people from making mistakes. Mistakes such as takinga little letter out of their father's mailbox. If we cashed that check,then it couldn't be put back in father's mailbox without anybody knowingabout it. And that would be real bad."

  "But it's mine!"

  "Sonny, if that's yours, all you have to do is to have your folks come inand say so. Then we'll open an account for you."

  "Yes sir," said Jimmy in a voice that was thick with tears of frustrationclose to the surface. He turned away and left.

  Jake was still in the outside office of the Yard when Jimmy returned. Theboy was crestfallen, frustrated, unhappy, and would not have returned atall if there had been another place where he was welcome. He expectedridicule from Jake, but Jake smiled.

  "No luck, kid?"

  Jimmy just shook his head.

  "Checks are tough, Jimmy. Give up, now?"

  "No!"

  "No? What then?"

  "I can write a letter and sign it," said Jimmy, explaining how he hadoutfoxed the ticket seller.

  "Won't work with checks, Jimmy. For me now, if I was to be polite anddressed right they might cash a twenty if I showed up with my socialsecurity card, driver's license, identification card with photographsealed in, and all that junk. But a kid hasn't got a chance. Look, Jimmy,I'm sorry for this morning. To-morrow morning we'll go over to my bankand I'll have them cash it for you. It's yours. You earned it and youkeep it. Okay? Are we friends again?"

  "Yes sir."

  Gravely they shook hands. "Watch the place, kid," said Jake. "I got tomake a phone call."

  In the morning, Jake dressed for business and insisted that Jimmy put onhis best to make a good impression. After breakfast, they set out. Jakeparked in front of a granite building.

  "This isn't any bank," objected Jimmy. "This is a police station."

  "Sure," responded Jake. "Here's where we get you an identification card.Don't you know?"

  "Okay," said Jimmy dubiously.

  Inside the station there were a number of men in uniform and in plainclothing. Jake strode forward, holding Jimmy by one small hand. Theyapproached the sergeant's desk and Jake lifted Jimmy up and seated him onone edge of the desk with his feet dangling.

  The sergeant looked at them with interest but without surpri
se.

  "Sergeant," said Jake, "this is Jimmy James--as he calls himself whenhe's writing stories. Otherwise he is James Quincy Holden."

  Jimmy went cold all over.

  Jake backed through the circle that was closing in; the hole he made wasfilled by Paul Brennan.

  It was not the first betrayal in Jimmy James's young life, but it wastotally unexpected. He didn't know that the policeman from the bank hadworried Jake; he didn't know that Jake had known all along who he was; hedidn't know how fast Brennan had moved after the phone call from Jake.But his young mind leaped past the unknown facts to reach a certain, andcorrect, conclusion.

  He had been sold out.

  "Jimmy, Jimmy," came the old, pleading voice. "Why did you run away?Where have you been?"

  Brennan stepped forward and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Withouta shadow of doubt," he said formally, "this is James Quincy Holden. I soidentify him. And with no more ado, I hand you the reward." He reachedinto his inside pocket and drew out an envelope, handing it to Jake. "Ihave never parted with one thousand dollars so happily in my life."

  Jimmy watched, unable to move. Brennan was busy and cheerful, the modelof the man whose long-lost ward has been returned to him.

  "So, James, shall we go quietly or shall we have a scene?"

  Trapped and sullen, Jimmy Holden said nothing. The officers helped himdown from the desk. He did not move. Brennan took him by a hand that wasas limp as wet cloth. Brennan started for the door. The arm lifted untilthe link was taut; then, with slow, dragging steps, James Quincy Holdenstarted toward home.

  Brennan said, "You understand me, don't you, Jimmy?"

  "You want my father's machine."

  "Only to help you, Jimmy. Can't you believe that?"

  "No."

  Brennan drove his car with ease. A soft smile lurked around his lips. Hewent on, "You know what your father's machine will do for you, don't you,Jimmy?"

  "Yes."

  "But have you ever attended school?"

  "No." But Jimmy remembered the long hours and hours of study and practicebefore he became proficient with his typewriter. For a moment he feltclose to tears. It had been the only possession he truly owned, now itwas gone. And with it was gone the author's first check. The thrill ofthat first check is far greater than Graduation or the First Job. It isapproximately equal to the flush of pride that comes when the author'sstory hits print with his NAME appended.

  But Jimmy's typewriter was gone, and his check was gone. Without a doubtthe check would turn up cashed--through the operations of Jake Caslow.

  Brennan's voice cut into his thoughts. "You will attend school, Jimmy.You'll have to."

  "But--"

  "Oh, now look, Jimmy. There are laws that say you must attend school.The only way those laws can be avoided is to make an appeal to the lawitself, and have your legal guardian--myself--ask for the privilege oftutoring you at home. Well, I won't do it."

  He drove for a moment, thinking. "So you're going to attend school," hesaid, "and while you're there you're going to be careful not to discloseby any act or inference that you already know everything they can teachyou. Otherwise they will ask some embarrassing questions. And the firstthing that happens to you is that you will be put in a much harder placeto escape from than our home, Jimmy. Do you understand?"

  "Yes sir," the boy said sickly.

  "But," purred Uncle Paul Brennan, "you may find school very boring. Ifso, you have only to say the word--rebuild your father's machine--and goon with your career."

  "I w--" Jimmy began automatically, but his uncle stopped him.

  "You won't, no," he agreed. "Not now. In the meantime, then, you willlive the life proper to your station--and your age. I won't deny you asingle thing, Jimmy. Not a single thing that a five-year-old can want."