Billy Whiskers at the Fair by Frances Trego Montgomery - HTML preview

CHAPTER XIV
 THE REWARD

THE next morning things at Cloverleaf Farm had settled back into their accustomed groove. Breakfast was over by half past six, and soon after a wagon arrived bringing home the Duke, more vain than ever since his beauty had been publicly recognized, and Toppy, still somewhat ruffled owing to the long chase she had led her keepers the day previous ere she had been captured and returned to the coop she had deserted with Billy Whiskers’ aid.

The boys had marched off to school, each swinging his lunch basket, and each wishing that lessons were half as interesting as the Fair.

That evening the postmaster was sitting on the same cracker barrel he had occupied two days before, and, beaming with good nature, hailed the Treat trio as they were passing on their way home from school.

“A letter in here for your father!” he called genially.

“Where from?” asked Tom shortly, with but a show of slight interest.

“Springfield, I guess. The postmark is blurred, and so I can’t be real sure.”

“You go after it, Harry,” commanded the eldest of the three.

“Won’t either!”

“Then you go, Dick,” turning to the little fellow when he found Harry incorrigible.

“Guess not!” sturdily, hands in trouser pockets, and feet kicking the deep dust of the roadway. “Papa says you’re to bring the mail, so get it yourself,” and on he marched.

“Not so anxious now your automobile has come,” said the postmaster as Tom reluctantly entered.

Hurrying out without waiting to reply, he soon overtook his brothers, and after examining the envelope, stuffed it in his hip pocket. It likely would have been there yet had not Dick thought it wise to settle the responsibility of delivering the family mail in the future.

“Say, papa,” he began at the supper table that evening, “it’s Tom’s place to stop at the post-office, isn’t it?”

Tom frowned at Harry, thinking that he had prompted Dick to put the question. Harry frowned back, and even gave his brother a pinch under cover of the table.

“Boys, boys!” reproved Mr. Treat, “what’s the trouble now?”

“Nothin’,” answered Tom. “Only I asked Harry to get the letter Mr. Harris had for you, and he wouldn’t, and Dick was stubborn, too.”

“Now, Tom, you know that is your duty. I want my eldest son to bring the mail. The younger boys might lose it. Even you, big as you are, seem likely to prove careless, for you have not delivered any letter to me as yet.”

“Oh, father, I forgot!” and a hot flush of shame at his negligence mounted Tom’s cheeks, as he hastily produced the missive.

“Of all things! Mother, listen to this,” for as Mr. Treat tore open the envelope out had dropped a pink slip of paper beside a note.

“Dear Sir:—

I’m a comparatively poor man, but not so poor in gratitude that I cannot voice my thanks for the rescue of my baby son at the Fair yesterday. That the rescuer happened to be a goat is no reason why the act should go unrewarded, and the enclosed check is the effort I make to express my appreciation of the brave act. I send it in the hope that it may provide some luxury for those who have trained him so well.

Sincerely,
 J. B. MARTIN.”

“How much is it?” gasped Mrs. Treat.

“Fifty dollars, as I live!”

“Of course we cannot accept it?” half questioned his wife.

“I don’t know,” argued Mr. Treat. “I am sure if my baby had been in such peril, I should not like to have his rescuer return the thank-offering I made—the only way a man has to show his appreciation and lasting gratitude, as Mr. Martin says.”

“Let’s keep it to go to the Fair next year. Think what a lot of candy we can have!” suggested Harry eagerly.

“Well, boys, I think we will keep it, but it will go in the bank to be added to the fund Billy has already started for your college educations,” decided Mr. Treat, carefully folding the check and placing it in his pocket-book.

That night after their mother had tucked the covers about them and put out the light, Tom snuggled over close to Harry, and whispered:

“Harry, I’ve thought of a plan!”

“What about?”

“I’ve been thinking a goat is a pretty good thing—better’n a calf. The Duke has never earned any money, but Billy has a lot. Suppose we sell the Duke.”

“Not by a long way!” said Harry, scorning the proposal.

“But, Harry, listen to common sense! You know Billy earned a lot this summer. We’d not have the auto if it wasn’t for him. And now here is another fifty dollars come to-day. If one goat can do that, why not get more—one for each of us boys, anyway?”

“But the Duke? Why sell him?”

“I must say you are slow,” responded Tom impatiently. “We’ll have to have some money to buy the goats, won’t we?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to lose the Duke. Say, why not take the money in our banks downstairs and buy some kids? They’d not cost so much as full-grown goats, and they would soon grow.”

“Bully for you!” said Tom, pounding Harry vigorously on the back to express his appreciation of the valuable suggestion. “We’ll do it to-morrow.”

The next day being Saturday and a holiday, the boys proceeded to put their plan into immediate execution. Counting their hoard, they found it totalled six dollars and three cents. “Let’s not wait till afternoon, but go down to the Corners now. Mr. Finnegan has two kids and perhaps he’ll sell one to us,” whispered Harry as they bent over their task of counting the heap of pennies.

“All right, come along,” and snatching caps, they ran to the kitchen and told their mother they were going to the Corners on “important business.”

Mrs. Treat was one of those wise mothers who have the full confidence of her sons, and she never pried into their secrets, for she knew full well they would tell her all about them in good time.

“All right, boys, but hurry back. It is getting along towards noon.”

Reaching Mr. Finnegan’s home, the boys went to the rear, and were delighted to have him answer their knock in person.

“Good morning, and what brings you here?” he asked.

“We’ve come to ask if you want to sell one of your goats,” said Tom.

“Well, now, that all depends on how much the buyer will pay. You see, my kids are very fine ones.”

“Yes, we’ve often seen them in the yard, and they look as good as our own Billy,” agreed Harry readily.

“How much is one worth?” asked Tom, bristling with business.

“Suppose we go out to see them,” replied Mr. Finnegan, leading the way to a small shed at the back of the lot. “I’ve said I’d not sell them for less than ten dollars, but seeing it’s you boys, and your father is a friend of mine, I’ll say five.”

“Oh, dear, and we wanted two, one for each of us!” lamented Harry.

“You do? And how much money have you?”

“Six dollars and three cents, and we need ten!”

“Seeing what a very good friend your father is, I’ll let you have them for that,” said the owner of the kids.

“What?” they chorussed, their eyes dancing at the proposal.

“Just right! six dollars and three cents and you own two kids.”

“Aren’t they fine?” said Harry, eyeing the kids with supreme satisfaction. “Count out the money, Tom, and we’ll take them home with us.”

Two happier boys never turned into the Treat drive than Tom and Harry that Saturday noon.

Mr. Treat had come in from the fields, and Mrs. Treat was fretting because her sons were not on hand ready for dinner, and went to the front veranda to watch for their appearing.

“I want to know what those boys are up to now. Father, come out here this minute. Is it goats those lads are carrying?”

“Looks like it to me,” returned her husband with a silent chuckle.

“As if I haven’t had enough bother with Billy Whiskers!”

“Come in here, Tom,” called Mr. Treat, as the boys were making for the stables. “What’s this?”

“Why, they’re our new kids! Bought them from Mr. Finnegan. Billy’s been such a good investment, and three will earn just three times as much. We’ve one apiece now, and you needn’t worry any more about our educations.”

“Boys!” gasped their mother, throwing up her hands in amazement.

“Never mind, mother! This is their first business venture, and we must see what they make of it.”

“But—but, father, you can’t realize what it means. Three goats!”

“There, there, don’t fret! Billy Whiskers will likely take good care of them. Let the boys have a chance.”

When Mr. Treat allied himself with his sons in this way, their mother usually yielded, and so it happened that Tom and Harry led their purchases to the barn for safe keeping, and Billy introduced the kids as his “twins” to all the barnyard inhabitants. The title clung to them, for they were as like as two peas, and as long as they lived at Cloverleaf Farm they were known far and wide as the “twins.” Years afterwards, when Billy Whiskers was old and feeble, the children of the twins, and his grandchildren by adoption, would clamor for a story, and Billy would relate his adventures at the Fair just as you have read them, and would end by saying:

“But those experiences do not compare with the good times I had with the twins at Chautauqua the next summer,—not nearly. However, that is too long a tale for me to tell to-day, and besides, it is recounted in the book written about us, ‘Billy Whiskers’ Twins.’”

THE END