Треваньян - Incident at Twenty-Mile

Mr. Kane cleared his throat and grunted. "Well, lots of good men have been poor. That's nothing to be ashamed of. A man can hold his head up, so long as he's willing to work for what he gets, and play fair with-"

"Oh, I'm willing to work, sir! Don't you worry about that. You just point me at what needs being done, and I'll do 'er!"

"I told you there's no work here."

"Yes but, I'm not talking about a permanent job. Just odd chores like chopping wood, or touching up a little paint, or fixing things that's busted, or toting stuff from here to there. Little stuff like that."

"There's lots of things we never get around to doing, Pa," Ruth Lillian put in, braving her father's dour glance. "You know you could use help with the heavy work."

Matthew had noticed that Mr. Kane had been slow in mounting the stairs and that he had stood at the top, drawing shallow breaths and pressing the flat of his hand against his chest.

But Mr. Kane was not going to be forced into a decision against his better judgment. "I don't need help. Not even temporary. I'm sorry, son, but that's how it is."

"I understand what you're saying, sir," Matthew agreed reasonably. "Look, I'll tell you what. Why don't I just go off and look around town while you two talk things over?" He pushed his chair back from the table and rose. "I don't know how to thank you for that fine meal, sir. It was what the Ringo Kid would call 'fair to middlin'. That means it was real good. Mr. Anthony Bradford Chumms always has the Ringo Kid express himself that way-saying things are less than they are. Like calling a wild shoot-out 'a bit of a dustup,' or like saying he's not feeling all that jaunty when he's been shot in the shoulder and lost buckets of blood. So when I say that dinner was fair to middlin', I really mean that it was-gosh, I don't know why I'm blabbering on like this! I guess I'm nervous because your decision means so much to me. So I'll just leave you to talk things over in private. I'll come back in a few hours, and you can tell me what you've decided about the job." He turned to his hostess and made a gesture like tipping the brim of the hat he'd left downstairs on the counter. "Much obliged, Ruth Lillian."

"I'll walk you down and unlock the door for you."

"That's mighty civil of you." He stood aside to let Ruth Lillian precede him down the stairs. Before following her, he put his head back into the dining room, where Mr. Kane was resting, his elbow on the table, his head in his hand, his eyes closed. "Thank you again, sir."

Without opening his eyes, Mr. Kane waved him away.

"THE THING IS THIS, sir," Matthew explained as he handed Professor Murphy the long-handled brush he used to scrub out his bath barrels after the miners went back up to the Lode. "Mr. Kane just doesn't have enough chores and odd jobs to keep me busy full time. Lord knows he wants to help me out, what with my ma and Ruth Lillian being so close and all."

The barber lifted his splendidly curled head out of the barrel and cocked a dubious eye at the young man. "You're related to the Kanes?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say we was related. But Ruth Lillian has the same name as my ma. You know how it is, sir. There's small towns back East where just about everybody's related to everybody else. My pa used to say that the dogs was even related to the cats!"

Professor Murphy contributed no more than a snort to the boy's self-appreciative laughter as he grunted his belly over the edge of the bath barrel and continued to scrub it with strong-smelling Fels-Naphtha soap. "Well, I'm afraid I ain't got any work for you," his voice echoed woodenly.

"Yes, sir, I understand that. The only reason I asked was because Ruth Lillian's pa and old B. J. Stone both thought maybe you could use some help with the dirty work. Like scrubbing out those barrels and such. But if you can't afford it, I'll just tell them so. I'm sure they'll understand."

Professor Murphy emerged from the barrel again, his splendid head of salt-and-pepper curls slightly askew. "It ain't a matter of being able to afford it!" He straightened his hair with a deft jerk. "It's a matter of needing help or not needing help!"

"You're absolutely right, sir. And I can see I'm wasting your time, and like my pa used to say: time is money. Matter of fact, I figure that scrubbing out those four barrels real good, then sweeping up your place, and washing the windows and stuff like that, would take me about… oh, about two hours. And I wouldn't be able to work for less than two bits an hour, so the whole job would cost you half a dollar, and the good Lord knows that half a dollar ain't chicken feed. Not in these hard times."

Twenty-Mile's only licensed purveyor of Chief Wapah's Patented Tonsorial Rejuvenator snorted. "If you think you could do all that work in two hours, boy, you been chewing on crazy-weed."

Matthew looked at the barrels with a measuring eye. "Hm-m-m, well, I'm pretty sure I can do it in two hours… three at the most. Tell you what. I'll do the job for six bits, and if it takes me all day, well then that's just skin off my own nose. I honestly don't believe a man could say fairer than that, do you, sir?"

"Six bits? Four barrels, scrubbed as clean as I want 'em? And my shop swept out? And my windows washed? And the trash dumped over the cliff, down across the tracks? And the sink scrubbed? You're saying you'd do all that for six bits?"

"Yes, sir, that's my price for the first two weeks. And after that, if you don't think that's fair-or if I don't-well then, we can work out some sort of agreement."

"Hm-m. Yeah but, even at six bits, the fact is I don't need no help."

"… plus advice."

"What?"

"My price would be six bits plus some advice."

"Advice? What sort of advice?"

"Well, sir…" Matthew smiled slackly and looked around in embarrassment. "It's my hair, sir. I'm afraid I'm starting to lose it."

"You?" The Professor regarded the boy's oak-brown, sun-glistered mop with a mixture of envy and irritation. "It's your mind you're losing, boy, not your hair. You'll have that hair till hell freezes over."

"I wish I could believe that, sir. But my pa, he was only forty-two years old when he died, and he was already getting a little thin on top. He used to say that early balding was a sure sign that a man was strong with the women! My ma'd get mad when he said that because he had a reputation for… well, you know. So along with six bits for doing your chores, I'll be wanting advice about what to do, if I want to have a head of hair like yours when I'm your age."

"You want hair like mine, do you? Well then, here!" He snatched off his wig and thrust it toward the boy, who jumped back startled. In fact, he actually was a little startled to see that the Professor was a good two inches shorter without his thick salt-and-pepper curls.

The Professor sputtered with laughter, and Matthew stood blinking. "Well sir, you fooled me, and that's for sure! I never in the world would of guessed!"

As he replaced his hair, still chuckling at the effect of his wit, Professor Murphy agreed to give their arrangement a try. "In fact, you can start right now." He tossed him the long-handled brush. "What'd you say your name was?"

"Folks call me the Ringo Kid. Sir, would it be all right if I started first thing tomorrow morning? You see, I'm supposed to talk to the man who owns the hotel. What's his name again?"

"Delanny. And it ain't a hotel! He gives himself airs, calling that three-stall whorehouse a hotel."

"Ain't that the truth? Some people do just love to give themselves airs. But I got to get me a little work from Mr. Delanny, too. Old B. J. Stone confided in me that there wasn't a real job to be had in Twenty-Mile, so I guess I've got to build me one out of bits and scraps. I'll be back bright'n early tomorrow, and seventy-five cents later, those tubs'll be cleaner than a… a… Gosh, I can't think of what you say things are cleaner'n a…"