Cherry Ames Boxed Set 13-16

by Helen Wells

  James Foye bombarded Cherry with names of Pell’s connections, episodes about businesses expanding and earning. Cherry grew almost dizzy under the salesman’s flow of eloquence.

  “But isn’t ten percent return—every week—an unheard of thing?” she asked.

  “Certainly it’s unheard of by run-of-the-mill investors,” James Foye announced forthrightly. “Certainly the routine, timid investor doesn’t even hear about this proposed dam. It needs a grubstake, that’s all. This dam will make money once the men who are planning it—men with vision—are given the capital which will let them start pouring concrete.”

  Cherry opened her mouth to ask another question. Foye anticipated it.

  “Of course there’ll be government participation, too,” he said. “Look at this letter to Pell from a Colorado state senator saying he will introduce a bill to vote government funds to help build the dam. But private investors are needed, too.”

  Cherry felt dazzled. Imagine herself helping indirectly in building a dam and swerving the course of a mighty river!—so that the desert would be irrigated and grow green with crops and be populated with new towns!

  She noticed James Foye studying her. She abruptly came to her senses.

  “I’d have to talk over any investment beforehand with my local bank,” she said. She decided against mentioning the Better Business Bureau and the Illinois Securities Division—that might scare Foye off.

  James Foye frowned, even at her mention of the local bank, then shrugged and said, “By all means, though that wastes a lot of precious time.” He was looking at her cagily, as if with mental reservations. She put on a deprecating smile and said:

  “At least, my father would want me to ask there first. He’s awfully conservative, though. He’s too old-fashioned to invest in anything himself. I don’t go along with his ideas.”

  The salesman smiled back at her and relaxed. “I respect conservative views in investment, like your father’s, but in view of what Cleveland Pell’s acumen has done for me, personally—” The young man leaned eagerly toward her, across the table. “Listen, Miss Ames. A few months ago I held a routine job at a modest salary. I was making a slow, small return on my small savings at the bank. Just plodding along. I could have plodded for the rest of my life. But I took a risk on the basis of Mr. Pell’s advice—I invested my salary and commissions from him in the businesses he believes are comers. I had only a couple of hundred dollars when I went to work for Mr. Pell, and now, I’ve bought a fine house, I own a car—and I’ve piled up a hundred thousand dollars in the last few months! That’s what the Pell Plan has done for me.”

  Cherry looked suitably impressed. She didn’t know what to believe. Was Foye exaggerating, or lying? In that case he was an awfully good actor. Or if his story were true, if he’d actually made such huge, sudden profits, there must be something dishonest in this scheme—in view of Mr. Alison’s sober warning. But she pretended enthusiasm.

  “It’s fabulous. Peggy Wilmot thinks I ought to be an investor,” Cherry said.

  “I think so, too,” James Foye said. “With large sums of money to be made—Incidentally, I mentioned to Mr. Pell that I was coming down to see you at Mrs. Wilmot’s request.”

  “Oh, did you? I’d consider it an honor to meet Mr. Pell sometime.” A talk with Pell, Cherry thought, might yield still fuller and more direct information. The salesman was silent. Cherry added, “That is, if Mr. Pell usually sees his clients.”

  “He wants to,” James Foye said apologetically, “but he just hasn’t the time. Believe me, Miss Ames, he’s a busy man. He travels a great deal, inspecting business ventures, so you can understand …”

  James Foye explained that the clients dealt directly with the salesmen, and with Mr. Pell only by mail. Very few of the investors ever went to Mr. Pell’s office. They invested by mail. Cherry wondered about Mr. Pell’s staying behind the scenes.

  “Perhaps I could write or phone Mr. Pell?” Cherry asked. “I’m perfectly happy and satisfied to deal through you, Mr. Foye. I’m sure you know that. It’s just that every now and then I run up to Chicago, so if I had Mr. Pell’s address, I’d stop in a minute to see him. All Mrs. Wilmot or I have is that post-office box number, you know.”

  The young man grinned. “You are astute. Now, honestly, Miss Ames, would Mr. Pell have eight sales representatives on his staff if he himself had time to see our customers? I’ll be glad to do this for you, though—as soon as Mr. Pell does have any free time, I’ll try to arrange an appointment for you. Will that satisfy you?”

  His offer did not satisfy Cherry at all; he was merely avoiding giving her Pell’s address. She could not insist, though. She must not alert the salesman to the fact that she was suspicious of the Pell Plan. Foye was replacing the reports, maps, and letters to Pell in his portfolio. She wondered whether that was because any of the letters to Pell gave an address for him.

  Cherry glanced at her wristwatch. Foye redoubled his sales talk.

  “Let’s consider your financial situation realistically, Miss Ames,” he said. “You’re in a salaried profession which is stable but won’t ever make you rich. However, you’re young, and if you start young and invest regularly out of your salary, your earnings will mount up.”

  He looked around for scrap paper, then took three letters out of his pocket and scribbled figures on the envelopes.

  “Let’s say you can invest this amount every week,” he said. “Though some people mortgage or sell their belongings for cash to invest when a real opportunity comes their way!”

  Cherry resisted this dangerous suggestion. She said she had only her salary and a legacy from a great-aunt; she had sold the car she’d used when a rural nurse. James Foye nodded and went on figuring. The staff people around them in the cafeteria were getting up from their tables to report back to work, the ones on one-to-two-o’clock lunch hour began to come in. Cherry grew restless. She still had not learned anything definitive.

  James Foye handed her some figures, which she scanned. His plan for her was well reasoned; he had immediately grasped what her circumstances would permit. She glanced at the other envelopes he was figuring on; one fell down on Cherry’s side of the table. She picked it up and quickly read its return address: Cleveland Pell, Suite 321, Hotel Carlton, Chicago. She would remember that address. She replaced the envelope on the table, with the Pell address face down.

  “Frankly, Miss Ames, I’d like to clinch this sale,” James Foye said, “because I honestly feel the Pell Plan is in your best interest. I’d especially like to see you act promptly, today, so you could profit by the big forthcoming deal I was describing to you and Mrs. Wilmot.”

  He paused to give Cherry a chance to reply. She hesitated, as if considering what to do. Not that she had the faintest intention of handing over any money to Foye! She hesitated for so long that the salesman said courteously:

  “Well, think it over. I don’t want to hurry you, or urge you too much. If, in your own best judgment, this plan is for you, you can mail in this form with your check—” James Foye handed her a printed form for investors, bearing the post-office box number. It looked like an application form, but Cherry wondered whether it was a contract. “I’ll be glad to answer any further questions when I come to Hilton again,” said the salesman. “Or you may write to me in Chicago.”

  “I will certainly think about this, Mr. Foye,” said Cherry, rising. “I’m more interested in the Pell Plan than you perhaps realize.”

  Foye stood up, too, and picked up his hat and portfolio. He thanked Cherry for giving him her time and attention. “Since you are genuinely interested, Miss Ames, I’ll expect to hear from you. Is that right?”

  He seemed encouraged, as if Cherry had half agreed to invest. Cherry let his impression stand. She escorted him through the maze of hospital corridors to the main door, and there they said good-bye.

  On her way back to Women’s Orthopedics, Dr. Dan Blake saw her and paused. “Who was the tall, handsome stranger you had
lunch with?” he asked.

  “A salesman,” Cherry said. “A faker—I think. I wish I knew for certain.” Cherry shook back her dark curls and sighed. On two or three earlier occasions, she had confided to Dr. Dan her concern about Peggy Wilmot’s investment. “Dan, remember I told you about that Pell Corporation? Well, this man today is one of their salesmen. He was trying to sell me.”

  “Oh, that’s why you paid such close attention to him,” Dr. Dan said. “Did you learn anything?”

  “Yes, but I’d better tell you another time,” Cherry said. “Excuse me, Doctor, or I’ll be late on the ward.”

  Late in the afternoon, after changing from her white uniform into her dress, Cherry quickly read through the printed form. It was a contract, which made Cleveland Pell the investor’s agent, with full power to use the money for any purpose he saw fit. In small print the form absolved the Pell Corporation from responsibility “in case of investment losses beyond the control of this corporation.” That phrase could be interpreted to cover anything and everything, Cherry thought. Mr. Ames regarded the Pell application form as dubiously as Cherry did, when she showed it to him later, and repeated the salesman’s talk. Like Cherry, her father could only say:

  “We don’t know what to believe about the Pell Corporation at this stage. Hope the State Securities Division finishes their investigation of Pell soon.”

  Cherry also told the head nurse something of what was going on. Miss Greer inquired what the young salesman wanted, and of course was entitled to know because of her concern for the patient’s welfare. Warmth of interest in an arthritic’s problems was essential for successful nursing care of one of these discouraged and apprehensive rheumatoid patients. Besides, the head nurse did not want any excitement—whether enthusiasm or possible disappointment—to upset Peggy Wilmot just when she was making good physical progress.

  This week was a record week for the ward. Liz was out of traction, with her heel in a walking cast. She was learning to walk on crutches. Miss Hattie Hall, after some difficulty in getting out of bed, was practicing in the walker—a waist-high metal frame, open at the back. Her sour disposition had noticeably sweetened with the lessening of pain. Even Mrs. Davis, on Dr. Watson’s order for more pain-relieving medication, was comfortable. She gamely raised herself to sitting position at will, by using the trapeze bar that hung over the bed from the Balkan frame. Mrs. Swanson was able to wash her hands and face herself, which did wonders for her morale, though the nurse still washed her back and legs. One of Nurse Corsi’s patients, a nice motherly woman, was well enough to go home, with ringing congratulations and some envy from the occupants of both rows of beds. And Peggy Wilmot this week began to do bed exercises.

  When Dr. Watson ordered these rhythmical calisthenic exercises, he told Peggy, “Our aim is to limber up and strengthen your knees and wrists. Get your circulation moving. The rest of you will be pretty stiff by now, too. You be a good girl and do the exercises the physical therapist works out for you. It’s hard work, but if you want to go home without any deformities, all shipshape—exercise!”

  Peggy Wilmot looked slightly scared and said, “Yes, Doctor.”

  Cherry was present during this talk, and again when Betty Chase, the physical therapist, taught the patient some simple exercises. Cherry stood by and counted aloud while Peggy did each exercise three times. Peggy made faces from discomfort when she did the “bicycle” exercises with her feet and legs.

  “That’s enough for a start,” Betty Chase said at last. “Rest, now. Two exercise periods a day. We’ll gradually make them longer. I’ll come back. Or if I’m delayed, your nurse will supervise for me. Right, Miss Ames?”

  Cherry nodded, and said to Peggy, “You did extremely well. Better than most. Why, you’ll be graduating to the hospital swimming pool in a week, if you keep up the good work.” She knew patients must be encouraged to do the sometimes taxing bed exercises.

  “I am getting well, aren’t I?” Peggy exclaimed. She still was afraid to believe it; her morale was still shaky.

  Midge and Dodo were a great help with the recuperating patients. Midge coaxed Liz to drink the extra milk she needed for calcium for her healing bone. Dodo helped Peggy Wilmot to feed herself, a big gain, only cutting her meat for her. Peggy was still anxious about being handled roughly, still in some pain, but Dodo was solicitous and patient and did not hurry.

  Both Jayvees paid special attention to patient recreation, Midge writing letters for Miss Hattie Hall who dictated them to her, and Dodo reading aloud to Mrs. Davis. With one particularly discouraged woman, Dodo gently brushed her hair and sprinkled a little toilet water on her pillow. Small attentions, but, as the head nurse said, kindness was as important in its way as medicine.

  Dodo was growing up rapidly through her work in the hospital. She no longer broke into giggles at every turn, and she had stopped mooning after Dr. Dan Blake. So that Cherry was astonished when, in the middle of Wednesday afternoon, the youngster came up to her in tears.

  “Oh, what I did! I was taking Mrs. Davis’s chart to Dr. Watson’s office, and I went in without knocking, and—well—He came out immediately and said, why didn’t I knock, didn’t I know any better, would I like it if a person walked in on my doctor and me!” Dodo gulped back her tears of mortification. “I apologized and waited outside for the patient to finish with him. Then I apologized to the lady when the nurse wheeled her back to the ward. Do you think Dr. Watson will ever forgive me?”

  “I’m sure he’s forgiven you already,” Cherry said. “It isn’t like Dr. Watson to be impatient. He probably was thinking hard about the patient’s case, that’s all.”

  Dodo sniffled and smiled. “I hope so. You know, I love being around doctors and nurses. I just love working in a hospital.”

  “We love having you,” and Cherry gave her a little hug.

  CHAPTER VI

  Cause for Alarm

  CHERRY THOUGHT SHE NOTICED SOMETHING TENSE OR unhappy about Peggy Wilmot on Thursday morning. But in the subdued excitement of getting Peggy out of bed for the first time since her arrival at the hospital, and to the hydrotherapy room for a whirlpool bath, the slight worry slipped out of Cherry’s mind.

  There was a bustle on the ward all morning. After the morning care and the doctors’ visits, those patients who could walk or could go in wheelchairs were taken by the P.N. and Midge outdoors to the hospital garden. This was part of the hospital’s rehabilitation program to help patients re-enter normal daily life. Cherry had a glimpse of this cheerful outdoor scene from the ward windows.

  “You’ll go to the garden next time,” she said encouragingly to Peggy Wilmot.

  Peggy did not answer. Cherry thought she was tired after the hydrotherapy treatment, and left her alone. She looked very small and limp in the bed.

  Ann Vesey, the young Director of Volunteers, phoned Cherry and asked if she could consult with her about the junior volunteers during lunch hour. They agreed to meet in Miss Vesey’s office and have their sandwiches there. Cherry went down at noon.

  “Hello, Cherry, I’m glad you could come,” said Ann and led Cherry into her office. Its walls were decorated with colorful lists of names of volunteers, both adult and teenage, and beside each name the hours of service given. Some ran into hundreds of hours, for those persons who helped faithfully at the hospital year in and year out. Cherry admired some dolls sitting atop the file cabinets, and paused before a big, new photograph of this year’s juniors. It showed three girls helping the very youngest patients in the playroom to make crayon pictures and ride the rocking horse.

  “That’s Claire Alison and Emma Weaver,” Cherry recognized in the photograph, “but I don’t know the third girl.”

  “She’s Janet Martin, a late recruit, but so eager that I accepted her,” replied Ann “She was trained in a hurry by the kids themselves and Mrs. Jenkins.”

  Mrs. Jenkins was the cranky head nurse of the Women’s Medical Ward who all along had had nothing good to say for the juniors.
Cherry’s mouth opened in surprise.

  Ann’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, she still objects to their high spirits. But Carol Nichols, who’s only fifteen and assigned to the blood bank, helped her to save a patient’s life the other day, by being quick and accurate and reliable.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Cherry said.

  “You are now quoting Mrs. Jenkins,” said Ann chuckling. She glanced up at the playroom photograph. “Dave McNeil took that picture; we may send it to the local newspaper. The dolls are a present from one of the Red Cross ladies. Come sit down.”

  She led Cherry to her desk, where they sat down facing each other over a pile of Jayvee records and a tray with sandwiches and milk. It was still early to write evaluations on the juniors, but a few special situations had arisen. Miss Vesey explained that since Cherry had taken an active part in helping to recruit and train the young people, she wanted Cherry’s viewpoint, along with the thinking of other nurses and staff members.

  “Did you hear that Lillian Jones is losing her enthusiasm and wants to drop out?” Miss Vesey asked Cherry. “She feels we don’t allow her to do important enough jobs. In fact,” Miss Vesey said, and laughed, “at least three other juniors have asked me why they aren’t allowed to help in Surgery!”

  Cherry smiled. “They have the right spirit, anyway. What are you planning to do about Lillian?”

  “I offered her a flower service job—arranging the flowers that visitors bring to the patients. It’s simple but sort of glamorous. She was delighted.”

  Ann laughed softly and went on. Did Cherry think Bud Johnson reliable enough, after knowing him a year, for the hospital to recommend him for a premedical college scholarship? Cherry recommended Bud heartily.

  Ann said that Myron Stern, who was fourteen, younger than Bud, liked his Jayvee laboratory work so much and was doing so well at it that he had decided to become a biochemist. “And I think we’ve discovered a budding doctor in Johnny Valdez,” said Ann continued.