  Dave Wilbur’s back-yard was, as has been said, a favorite meeting-place for the Truesdell boys, and when for any reason secret sessions were desirable, the garage was especially convenient. Here, on the following afternoon, the seven prospective business men assembled to listen to reports of their various committees and to discuss ways and means. Ned Blake mounted a rickety step-ladder and called the meeting to order. “I ran into a snag the moment I applied for a lease of the Coleson property,” began Ned. “The town authorities are willing to get some income from it to cover taxes, but it seems that to be legal the lease must stand in the name of somebody over twenty-one years old. We can get it for three months at twenty-five dollars a month, but the papers must be made out to somebody of legal age.” “That ought to be easy,” suggested Dick Somers. “I know Dad would let the lease stand in his name, if I asked him to.” Ned shook his head. “Of course we can get around it that way—and maybe we’ll have to come to it; but this scheme is all our own and I’d like to see us put it through and make a big success of it by our own efforts, without calling on anybody’s father for help in any way.” “That’s the stuff!” exclaimed Wat Sanford. “We want to run this thing on our own. There ought to be some way to get around this silly legal difficulty.” “I’ve got an idea,” volunteered Tommy Beals from the front seat of the flivver, where he had ensconced himself. “I talked with our man, Sam, last night and he agreed to handle the refreshments for us. Why not have the lease put in his name? That will cover the law and make Sam all the more anxious to attend to his part of the business.” “Bully idea, Patty!” chorused several voices. “But will Sam agree to this?” asked Ned. “Sure he will!” declared Beals. “He’ll be so swelled up when he sees his name on a legal document that we’ll be lucky if he doesn’t bust! Leave it to me.” This the boys were willing to do, and the discussion proceeded to other matters. Dick Somers and Charlie Rogers reported an option on the purchase of two brooms and half a dozen steel floor-scrapers at four dollars. Sandpaper and wax would bring the total to eight-fifty. They had also arranged for the loan of two polishing brushes when needed. Dave Wilbur and Wat Sanford had proved themselves shrewd business men in the matter of interior decoration. “Wat and I have contracted to tack up the usual flags and bunting around the municipal band-stand on July third and take ’em down again on the fifth,” explained Dave. “In return for this hard toil we are to have the use of the stuff till Labor Day, when the town will need it again.” “That’s a clever scheme and it will save us real money,” approved Ned. “I’m a bit worried about all the hard work you’ve laid out for yourself, Weary, but at that, I guess you’ll find it easier than scraping and polishing floors.” “Yeah, I kind of figured it would take the load off’n me for a couple of days,” admitted Dave, with a grin. These details being settled to the satisfaction of all, it was decided to begin operations without further delay. Ned Blake, Tommy Beals and Dave Wilbur started off in the flivver in quest of Sam, who, when found, proved very willing to leave his labors in the Beals garden for the purpose of signing an important document at the town hall. There was no hitch this time, and very shortly a lease of the Coleson property to one Samuel G. Washington, for the period of ninety days from date, was signed, sealed and delivered, and with it the key to the house. “Don’t say a word about this to anybody, Sam,” was Ned’s parting injunction. “We want to keep the thing a secret as long as we can.” “No sah, no sah, I don’t say nuthin’,” chuckled the negro and he strutted back to his work in an ecstasy of self-importance. After leaving Sam, the flivver was headed for the hardware store, where the other boys were waiting, and with brooms and scrapers stowed in the car they were soon on the way to the scene of their labors. “Our first job is to sweep out this dust,” announced Ned, when the great oaken door of the Coleson house had swing open at the turn of his newly acquired key. “Open every shutter and let the wind blow through.” Coats were discarded and brooms wielded with such good will that all the floored portion of the lower story was speedily cleared of its heavy deposit of dust and dirt. As fast as this was removed, the steel scrapers were put to work and, by the time the long shadows warned of supper time, a creditable showing had been made. A dip in the cold water of the lake removed the grime and refreshed the spirits of the workers, after which they climbed into the little car and rattled away for home, well satisfied with their first day’s progress. “All members of the orchestra meet for practice at my house tonight at seven-thirty,” directed Jim Tapley, who, by reason of his superior ability, was the acknowledged leader in things musical. “Come on over and listen in, Fatty,” he continued hospitably. “No, thanks,” declined the plump youth with some fervor. “My nerves are none too strong after such a strenuous day and besides I’ve got an idea that I want to work up.” When Tommy Beals got an idea, he pursued it with vigor, and long after the last wailing pulsation of the practicing orchestra had melted into midnight silence, Tommy was still busily at work in his own room, upon the walls of which were tacked several cleverly executed copies of his “idea.” |
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