Part 6

J. Peters, however, didn't get drunk, and he had a wit that was sharper than a new-honed razor, and, as he wasn't curious, paid his bills, and seemed to mind his business and no one else's, besides having faultless manners and a pocket full of ready money, the younger folks after a short period of probation welcomed him with open arms.

He never made much of a hit with the old people, and as I look back I can see it was their intuition gained by hard experience that warned them that J. Peters was not all he seemed, although at the time I put it down to pure envy.

From the first, J. Peters who was at least fifteen years older, took a great fancy to me.

He was forever hanging round the bank, inviting me to dinner at the Mansion House, driving me about the country and going fishing with me on Saturday afternoons.

J. Peters was extremely well read, seemed to have traveled everywhere, and knew men intimately whose names in the financial world were all majestic. I thought J. Peters a whale of a chap and tried in every possible way to imitate him, even to copying so far as I was able his slow drawling way of speaking.

My father couldn't see J. Peters with a spy glass, but neither could he prove anything to his discredit, and as I was then at the beautiful age of eighteen when one knows so much more than he ever does again, my father's warnings flowed out of my ears like water from a sieve.

One day, six months after J. Peters had arrived in Epping, he proposed that I accompany him on a week end trip to Boston which I was crazy to do, but had to refuse on account of my finances being at low tide.

J. Peters wouldn't take no for an answer, however, and finally persuaded me to go as his guest.

We were to take the noon train on a Friday; but when Thursday night came he called to me from the piazza of the Mansion House as I was on my way home from work, and told me that something had come up which would prevent his going until Saturday.

He pushed a roll of bills into my hands telling me to go as we had planned, engage rooms at the American House, buy theatre tickets for Saturday evening, and wait for him as he would follow on the Saturday noon train.

His story sounded plausible enough so I followed his directions, and had a gorgeous time until six o'clock Saturday evening came and with it no J. Peters. I waited for him in the lobby of the hotel until midnight, and then went to bed feeling he must have missed his train but would show up the next day.

He didn't though, and I spent Sunday roaming around the city seeing the sights, returning to the hotel for supper. Just as I was pushing my way through the front door someone grabbed me, then I felt something cold and steely clasped around my wrists, and looking up saw Hen Winters, the sheriff of Epping County, scowling down at me.

When I recovered enough from my fright to understand what it all meant, I learned that I was wanted for stealing $20,000 in Cash from the Epping National Bank, and that explanations were out of order.

The bank had been robbed. J. Peters and I were missing, and the mere fact that all the money Hen found in my pockets after a painstaking search amounted to $9.75 didn't get me anywhere, for my intimacy with J. Peters was known to everyone in town.

Back I went to Epping handcuffed to Hen, and the fact that we reached home late when no one was at the station to see us, was all that kept my folks from dying of shame.

My father stood my bail, and in a few days the detectives put matters straight by discovering that on the night I left for Boston, J. Peters alone had robbed the bank and made good his escape to Canada, but, believe me, Ted, until that mess was cleaned up I felt about as joyful as a leather merchant who's carrying a big stock in a falling market.

Now I don't believe for a minute, that either of those boys you brought home with you over Sunday, will turn out to be a J. Peters. It takes brains to be a successful bank robber, and in my estimation neither has enough of that commodity to head the lowest class in a school for feeble minded. But I do think they have enough nonsense in their heads to get you into a peck of trouble if you continue to run with them, so if I were you I'd cut them out.

At the best those boys may be harmless. There are a lot of things that don't do a man any particular harm, but life is only a short stretch, so why clutter it up with a lot of harmless things, when every young American has the opportunity to enrich it with what is really worth while.

The friends you make during the next few years will be your friends through life, and if I were you I'd select them as carefully as you do your neckties for they will wear much longer.

Your affectionate father,

WILLIAM SOULE.

LYNN, MASS., _March 28, 19--_

DEAR TED:

Don't think that the old man has set up as a sort of a composite wiseacre, who believes he knows more than Solomon, Socrates & Company. A man can't knock around the shoe trade for thirty odd years without picking up a pretty general line of useful knowledge, and if he has a son, it's kind of up to him to see that the boy gets the benefit of what his dad learned in the School of Hard Knocks. That's why I have tried to give you some hints in my letters in regard to certain things I would not do. Betting is one of them.

When I read your last letter in which you said you cleaned up twenty bucks on the Indoor Games, I realized that although you were not yet slithering down the greased toboggan slide to perdition, it wouldn't do any harm to hand out a little advice you can use as a sort of sand paper seat to your pants, to keep you from exceeding the speed limit.

Speaking of sand paper, reminds me of something that happened one year on the train coming home from the Shoe and Leather Fair at St. Louis, and as I have a few minutes before Miss Sweeney brings in the figures on that last shipment of the Company's leather, I'll pass it on to you for what it's worth.

I was in the observation car, trying to write a few letters amid the chatter of a group of red hot sports, who I judged from their remarks, were on the way home from playing the races at New Orleans. One young fellow, in a sunset suit, was particularly noisy. Every few minutes, he would draw a huge wad of bills out of his pocket and waving them under his friends' noses would boast of what he was going to do to Wall Street when he hit little old New York.

Now I have considerable respect for Wall Street's ability to take care of itself, and somehow I couldn't picture all the old bulls and bears putting up the shutters and hiking for the tall grass, when that particular youth who had a chin like a fish's, landed in their midst.

The train stopped at a small town, and an old man who looked like the greenest rube in captivity came into the car. He sat down opposite the bunch of sports and pulling a country newspaper out of his pocket buried himself in its pages.

From where I sat, I could see the sporting fraternity sizing him up and presently the young loudmouth crossed over and sat down beside him.

"Nice country around here Uncle," young freshy began.

"Shore is," the old farmer answered. "So durned fine I hate tew leave it. I bean here nigh on forty years, and I hain't left Bington more'n twict. I sold the old farm a short spell back, and I'm going to Chicago now to live with a granddarter."

"Have a cigar?" asked the young sport.

"Don't keer if I do," replied the farmer biting off the end, and taking one of the safety matches from a holder on the wall of the car he tried to strike it on the sole of his boot.

Now at that time safety matches had not been used to any great extent, still I didn't suppose it was possible there was anyone who did not know what they were, although I knew that in some of those small mountain towns away from the railroad, the people were said to be a hundred years behind the times. When the old man tried to scratch another, and then a third, I was convinced he'd never heard of or seen a safety match, and I wondered what he'd do next.

"Powerful pore matches, these be," he said with a grunt, as he reached for a fourth and attempted to light it on the leg of his trousers.

A crafty, cunning look, spread over the young sport's weak face. "You can't light those matches that way," he said.

"I'll bet I kin," the old man replied doggedly, making his fifth unsuccessful attempt.

"What will you bet?" the young fellow asked, quickly, an evil light gleaming in his fishy eyes.

"Wal I never yet seen a match I couldn't light on my pants. I'll bet you a quarter."

The young man fished out his wad of bills. "I'm no tin horn," he replied, with a sneer. "But if you want to lose your money, I'll bet you $100 you can't light one of those matches on your trousers."

"Land sakes!" cried the old farmer. "A hundred dollars?"

"That's what I said," replied the young fellow, grinning at his pals. "This gentleman will hold the money," he continued, peeling off a hundred dollar bill from his roll and thrusting it into my hands.

I had just about decided to spoil the game with a little history on safety matches, when the old farmer who had been fishing around in his wallet, darted a shrewd glance at me, then deliberately winked.

Finally, he counted out $100 in small bills, which he handed over to me, grabbed a safety match from the container, rubbed it on the leg of his trousers, and when to my astonishment, it burst into flame, calmly lighted his cigar and held out his hand for the $200 which I passed over to him.

Later, in the pullman, as the old fellow was mooching by my chair, he raised his coat enough to show me the side of a safety match box sewed to the leg of his trousers.

Now the only trouble with betting, Ted, is that it's wrong. It's wrong for several reasons. First, because it's trying to get something for nothing; second, because a man always loses when he can't afford it; third, because gambling of any kind will sooner or later get a young fellow into the kind of company he don't want to introduce to his folks; fourth, because if a fellow sticks to gambling all his life he's pretty sure to die in the neighborhood of the poorhouse; and fifth, no matter how slick a gambler you become, you will always meet a slicker one, who will trim you to a fare-thee-well.

It's fine to back your teams to the limit, and I'd think you a pretty poor sort of a stick if you didn't yell your head off at a game, but do you think it helps to steady a players nerve in a pinch, to know that if he doesn't deliver, his schoolmates will have to live on snow balls or some other light refreshment for a couple of months.

No Ted, old scout, betting is not only wrong, it's foolish.

Your affectionate father,

WILLIAM SOULE.

LYNN, MASS., _April 6, 19--_

DEAR TED:

I agree with you, you do need a new hat. One about two sizes larger than you have been wearing, I should judge from the line of talk you turned loose when you were home last Sunday.

Now it's all right for a fellow to think well of himself. He'll never get far if he doesn't, but it's just as well to be careful how you sing your own praises, for some day your audience may consist of persons who know the folks who live next door to you.

You've done pretty well so far in making a decent showing in your mid-years under a big handicap, playing on the football team, and making the glee club, besides being elected to the Plata Dates and the student council, but you want to remember that even a vegetarian can't live long on his laurels and keep up the good work, for you haven't completed your school course by a good bit.

Sunday, you gave a pretty fair exhibition of enlargement of the cranium commonly known as swelled head. That's one of the most dangerous of all known diseases, and one you can't cure any too quickly. It's all right to be pleased with yourself for accomplishing something worth while, but it's all wrong to keep on being pleased with yourself unless you keep on accomplishing things worth while.

Whenever you can look at yourself in the mirror and be satisfied, you should consult a conscience oculist, for as sure as shooting there's something wrong with your inner sight.

But worst of all, is to let people know you're satisfied with yourself, and it's just as well to remember that the word I is the most superfluous in the English language.

Hot air may be a necessity in the Balloon corps, but the private offices in the factory are steam heated, and the men who sit in them are not there because they talk about themselves, but because they think for the firm.

The reason I'm handing you a pretty stiff dose in this letter, is principally because you need it. I've seen a lot of promising young fellows start out with a rush, and then after they have made a moderate success, become so satisfied with themselves that they stick in a small job, when they have the ability to go much higher if they could stand prosperity.

There is always an over production of beginners but the supply of completers is never equal to the demand, and I want you to remember that the 31st of December is just as good a day on which to do business as January first.

It's all very nice to be considered the biggest man in your class, but you aren't going to be long if you go around telling people how big you are. Keep from making liars of the friends who praise you, and remember that persons who try to show off their greatness usually end by showing it up.

A horse who rushes the field for the first quarter doesn't always finish in the lead. No one deserves much credit for starting out with a big splash. It's the fellow who's doing business at the finish who really counts.

You've been a little too successful so far this year in everything except your studies, and your success has settled in your head.

Now don't think I'm not glad you are popular with your schoolmates: I am, but I'd much rather you weren't quite so popular with yourself. I don't want to rub it in Ted, but I do want you to realize that it's a blamed sight easier to reduce a swelled head when it's young than after it begins to get bald.

I had my little experience when I was super. at Clough & Spinney's in Georgetown so I'll pass it along to you for what its worth.

I'd started in as a boy in the shipping room, been promoted to shipping clerk, then I'd worked as a laster, going from that to the sole leather room. I'd married and been promoted to foreman, and having saved some money I'd bought a little house which was nearly paid for when I was made super.

I was about as happy a young fellow as you could find in all the New England shoe trade, for I'd been progressing steadily ever since I'd started work and it looked like a rosy future ahead.

As I look back now, I see that it was my help that made my success possible quite as much as my own efforts. Americans to the backbone, everyone of them! Steady going respectable men and women some of whom had been working in the shop when I was born, and who would have told any agitator to mind his own business, who might have undertaken to tell them they were working too hard.

Well, anyway, at the end of two years I had that little factory running as slick as a greased pig, and I was wearing a self-satisfied smile in consequence that I didn't even try to conceal, for old Hiram Spinney had taken to calling me William, and Ezra Clough used to invite your Ma and me to supper most every Sunday evening.

Then one day old Hiram landed a whopping big government contract, and it was up to me to make the shoes according to specifications and on time.

Well sir, there was a great bustle and hurrying around the little shop, extra hands were hired, new machinery installed, and then I started for Boston to buy the leather.

For the first time I was doing business in a really big way, and I was so full of the size of the order I was to place, I felt sure there was only one leather company that could handle my business, so I pooh-poohed several salesmen whom I met on South Street, and who having heard of our government contract assured me they had blocks of leather I could use to good advantage.

I bought my leather at what I considered a very good figure, had a good lunch at the old United States, and sat around the lobby for a while talking with the shoe and leather men I knew, letting it be pretty generally understood that as a superintendent I was some punkins.

Then on the strength of my wonderful ability as a buyer, I went up town and blew in about $100 on a new outfit for myself and some presents for your Ma.

When I took the train for Georgetown that evening, I ran bang into old Hiram Spinney and as we settled down in the same seat, he began to quiz me about the orders I had placed.

Full of pride because I considered I had bought to the best advantage, I started in to tell the old man what a great superintendent he had, poking a good deal of scorn at the foolish salesmen who had tried to interest me in their small blocks of leather, when I was out to buy a large quantity.

Old Hiram didn't say anything until I got through praising myself, which took some time as I was thoroughly sold on the idea.

When I'd finished, he looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

"Didn't even bother to look at those small lots of leather?" he asked.

"Nope, couldn't waste my time on 'em," I replied.

"I did," he answered, "looked pretty good to me too."

He went on telling me the prices quoted on each lot, describing the leather so accurately I knew I had passed by some mighty good things.

Gee! Ted, I could feel myself all shrivel up like a red toy balloon after a kid sticks a pin in it. I'd eaten a mighty good supper, but I felt hollow inside, and I guess my face looked as though I was seasick, for as near as I could figure I'd paid $12,000 more for my leather than I needed to have done.

Old Hiram let me squirm until the train reached Georgetown and we had stumbled off on to the platform.

"Thought maybe you'd like to know I bought those odd blocks," he said as I started for home.

"You did!" I replied, for I couldn't see how we possibly could use them along with what I'd purchased.

"Yep."

"What about the lot I bought?" I asked.

"I just stepped in and cancelled your order ten minutes after you'd left."

I was so happy I could have yelled for joy and at the same time I felt like two bits and a nickel.

"William," said old Hiram walking up and laying a hand on my shoulder, "you're a good boy, and you've done real well, but lately you've given signs of being too self-satisfied. Forget your own importance for the next ten years and then you will have reason to be proud."

He gave me a friendly little pat, and trudged off into the dark.

Old Hiram cured me. To this day I've remembered his advice, and tried to follow it. It's still bully good dope. I'd play it for all its worth if I were you.

Your affectionate father,

WILLIAM SOULE.

LYNN, MASS., _April 30, 19--_

DEAR TED:

Frankly Ted, I don't see how you ever did it. I have had some experience with expense accounts having twenty salesmen on the road; but no travelling man I have employed, ever had the nerve to present such a collection of outrageous bills as was contained in your last letter.

I'll admit, I was prepared for a few modest accounts, mostly for extra food, for a boy your age is nearly always hungry, and of course they starve you at the Commons, although I managed to get quite a substantial meal there the night I had dinner with you. But as near as I can judge the Exeter townspeople must be on the verge of starvation, for surely you have consumed all the food supplies in all the stores in the township.

I put you on an allowance this year, so you could learn how to handle money, and so far the net result has been that you have given a most perfect example of how not to do it.

A boy who can't keep pretty close to his allowance, is going to grow into a man who can't live within his income, and neither are going to score many touchdowns in the game of life, although they may do a whole lot of flashy playing between the twenty yard lines. Besides, it's just as well to remember that no one yet ever succeeded in eating his way into Who's Who.

Perhaps some of it is hereditary, though, for I remember when your Uncle Ted first went away to school, your grandmother gave him an allowance and made him promise to keep account of every cent he spent.

When he came home on his first vacation, she sat down with him and went over his accounts, on the whole much pleased, because he had kept within what she had given him.

Every third or fourth entry was S. P. G. and being a devoutedly religious woman she was delighted to find her boy had given so much of his money to the Society for Propagation of the Gospel, until Ted, being honest, had to own up that S. P. G. stood for Something, Probably Grub.

Your bills for extra feed, would make those of a stable full of trotting horses look like the meal tickets of a flock of dyspeptic canaries. But I don't mind those so much for I don't want to see you starve.

What I do mind is six silk shirts at twelve per, and a dozen silk sox at three dollars a pair. Now when you are making $15,000 a year which you won't be for some time, if you want to pay twelve dollars for a shirt that's your funeral, although I rather suspect that by then you will have found out that real good shirts can be bought much cheaper.

Of course when you had bought a few shirts at twelve dollars a throw, a dressing gown at forty, and silk pajamas at $15 came real natural.

Did I ever tell you how a necktie cost me $150? Well I will, before the super. comes in and tells me there's a new strike in the stitching room.

I was nineteen, and had been clerking for three years in Jed Barrow's store. Jed was so busy putting sand in the sugar, and mixing his Java with a high grade of chicory, he didn't have much time to think of advancing my wages, but I was careful, I had to be, and at the end of three years I had saved $178. I never have forgotten the exact figures, because it came so blamed hard.

There, one day, Jed suggested I take a week's vacation. I think he was afraid I was going to ask for a raise, and did it to get me out of the way, but as my Uncle Ezra had invited me to visit him in Boston I took my week, without pay, and hiked to the big town.

Uncle Ezra was the aristocrat of the family. He lived in one of those old yellow brick houses on Beacon Hill just across from the common, the kind with the lavender glass in the downstairs windows, and if the old man hadn't been so busy being an aristocrat, he'd have made a first-rate radical, for he was continually writing letters to the Transcript complaining about everything as it was.

Uncle Ezra greeted me cordially enough, until he caught sight of my necktie which I'll admit was somewhat bewhiskered and more green than black.

"My boy, what an awful tie!" he exclaimed.

"Really, you must let me buy you another," and he pulled some money out of his pocket.

Being proud, I refused, making some excuses about not having time to buy a new one. The first chance I got, I scooted across to a fancy haberdasher on Tremont Street, and picking out a handsome dark-blue tie told the clerk to wrap it up. I had never paid more than a quarter for a tie, and when he calmly told me it was two dollars I almost fainted, but I felt I couldn't very well refuse to take it so I went to the back of the store and put it on. Do you know Ted, when that rich silk tie was contrasted with my blue serge that had seen considerable service as Sunday best, I felt about as comfortable as a man in overalls wearing a plug hat.