The Great Brain Does It Again Read online

  Books by John D. Fitzgerald

  THE GREAT BRAIN IS BACK

  THE GREAT BRAIN DOES IT AGAIN

  THE RETURN OF THE GREAT BRAIN

  THE GREAT BRAIN REFORMS

  THE GREAT BRAIN AT THE ACADEMY

  ME AND MY LITTLE BRAIN

  MORE ADVENTURES OF THE GREAT BRAIN

  THE GREAT BRAIN

  BRAVE BUFFALO FIGHTER

  PRIVATE EYE

  UNCLE WILL AND THE FITZGERALD CURSE

  PAPA MARRIED A MORMON

  MAMMA’S BOARDING HOUSE

  Text copyright © 1975 by John D. Fitzgerald

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in connection with reviews written specifically for inclusion in a magazine or newspaper.

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Fitzgerald, John Dennis. The great brain does it again.

  Summary: In turn-of-the-century Mormon Utah, Tom’s great brain comes up with eight more schemes, most of them concerned with earning money. [1. Humorous stories]

  I. Mayer, Mercer, 1943– ill. II. Title.

  PZ7.F57535Gu [Fic] 74–18600

  ISBN: 978-0-425-29003-3

  Version_1

  For Ann Elmo

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  The Buried Treasure Swindle

  CHAPTER 2

  The Missing Rocking Horse

  CHAPTER 3

  The Horse Race

  CHAPTER 4

  Tom and the Dude

  CHAPTER 5

  The Chute-the-Chute

  CHAPTER 6

  Tom Becomes an Indian Blood Brother

  CHAPTER 7

  Herbie the Poet

  CHAPTER 8

  Thirteen

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Buried Treasure Swindle

  MY BROTHER TOM knew the A, B, C’s, could write numbers from one to one hundred, spell a lot of words, and read simple sentences before he started school. He did get some help from Papa and Mamma and my oldest brother Sweyn, but he learned most of these things by himself.

  Mrs. Thatcher taught the first through the sixth grades in our one-room schoolhouse when Tom started school. Adenville, Utah, had a population of about two thousand Mormons, four hundred Protestants, and only about a hundred of us Catholics, so a one-room schoolhouse was all we needed. Later, after Mrs. Thatcher retired, Mr. Standish became our teacher. He let Tom skip the fifth grade. I guess that proves how smart my brother was.

  Before 1898 any parents wanting their children to get more than a sixth-grade education had to send them away from home to go to school. Papa sent Sweyn and Tom to the Jesuit Catholic Academy for Boys in Salt Lake City, where the seventh and eighth grades were taught. After Sweyn graduated from the eighth grade, Papa sent him to Boylestown, Pennsylvania, to live with relatives and go to high school. Tom didn’t have to return to the academy for eighth grade. A nondenominational academy for seventh and eighth graders had been built in Adenville that year. Thirty-three students were enrolled. Tom was only twelve years old at the time.

  But the trouble with Tom’s great brain was his money-loving heart. Everybody laughed when, at the age of eight, he started telling people he had a great brain. But after he began to use his great brain to swindle kids and make fools out of adults, nobody laughed at him anymore. Us kids put up with him until he was twelve. Then he went too far. For thirty cents he put the lives of my two best friends in danger. We put him on trial in our barn and he was found guilty of being a confidence man, a crook, a swindler, and a blackmailer. The sentence handed down was that no kid in town would play with him or have anything to do with him for one year unless he gave up his crooked ways. The fellows let Tom off the hook when he promised to reform.

  But did he reform? Heck no. Oh, he had Papa and Mamma and the kids fooled, but not me. It was just that the swindles he pulled off were so slick that nobody could prove they were swindles.

  The Adenville Academy was two blocks from the Common School, where my adopted brother Frankie and I went to school. Frankie was in the first grade. I was in the fifth grade. Frankie’s parents and brother had been killed in a rockslide when he was four years old. Papa and Mamma had adopted him after my uncle, Mark Trainor, who was the town marshal and a deputy sheriff, couldn’t locate any relatives. Frankie was now six. It was easy to see he wasn’t my real brother because he had the blackest and straightest hair of any kid in town. I took after Papa and had dark curly hair. Sweyn was a blond like our Danish mother. Tom was a sort of mixture of Papa and Mamma and the only one who had freckles.

  * * *

  It was the first Friday in November when this buried treasure scheme of Tom’s began. He met us on the corner after school. We stopped at the Adenville Weekly Advocate office to find out if Papa wanted Tom to help him. Papa was editor and publisher of the town’s only newspaper and did printing for everybody who needed it. He was setting type when we entered the office.

  “Want me to come back and help after I change clothes?” Tom asked.

  Papa looked at us from beneath his green eyeshade. “No, thanks, T. D.,” he said. “But I’ll need your help next week on a big printing job.”

  My brothers and I usually called each other by our first and middle initials because that’s how Papa usually addressed us. We all had the same middle name of Dennis just like Papa because it was a family tradition.

  Mamma and Aunt Bertha were in the kitchen making pies when we got home. Mamma had her blond hair piled high in braids on her head like she usually wore it. Aunt Bertha wasn’t really our aunt. She came to live with us after her husband died because she didn’t have any place to go and she wasn’t a Mormon. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints took care of any Mormon in need, but Aunt Bertha was a Methodist. Why she picked our family, which was Catholic, I’ll never know. She simply walked into Papa’s newspaper office one day after burying her husband and said she had no place to go. She was a big woman in her sixties with hands and feet as big as a man’s. In a short time she became like one of the family.

  Aunt Bertha being a Methodist and us being Catholics never bothered us. The Mormons had their tabernacle church with Bishop Aden because Adenville was what they called a ward. But us Catholics and Protestants didn’t have any church of our own. We all went to the Community Church, where Reverend Holcomb preached strictly from the Bible so he wouldn’t show favoritism to any religion. Once a year the Protestants had a revival meeting at the campground when a traveling evangelist came to town. And once a year a Jesuit missionary priest came to Adenville, where he listened to confessions, held masses, baptized babies, and married Catholics in the Community Church.

  Mamma got the cookie jar from the pantry and put it on the kitchen table while Aunt Bertha got a pitcher of milk from the icebox.

  “Have your cookies and milk,” Mamma said, “and then I have something to tell you.”

  No wonder Mamma gave us the cookies and milk first. For Tom and me it was the same as giving a condemned man a hearty meal before hanging him.

  “I want the vegetable garden turned over tomorrow,” Mamma said after we’d finished.

  We should have expected this because it happened every fall after the growing season ended. Due to the mild climate in Adenville we could grow vegetables until about the middle of October. Last Saturday Tom and I had worked all day hauling manure from our barn and corral to spread on the garden. Tomorrow we would have to spade the garden a shovelful at a time, burying the manure beneath the dirt. This would fertilize the garden for planting in the spring.

  “Can�
��t it wait until next weekend?” Tom asked. “J. D. and I worked all last Saturday hauling and spreading manure.”

  “No, it can’t,” Mamma said. “I’m getting too many flies from the manure.”

  We knew there was no appeal to one of Mamma’s decisions. A criminal could appeal to a higher court, but could a kid? Heck no. For my money there just wasn’t any justice in this world for kids. Mamma had put up with the flies for a week. It wouldn’t have hurt her to put up with them for another week instead of making Tom and me work like slaves two Saturdays in a row.

  I followed Tom and Frankie upstairs to our bedroom where we changed to our playclothes. Then we went and sat on the back porch steps. We had a very large backyard divided by a wooden sidewalk that led from our back porch to our coal-and-woodshed. The left side we used as a playground. The right side was the vegetable garden, and the longer I looked at it the bigger it seemed. Beyond the coal-and-woodshed were our chicken coop, toolshed, barn, and corral.

  Eddie Huddle came over to play with Frankie. Tom and I just sat staring at the vegetable garden. I couldn’t help thinking it was tough enough for a fellow to have to go to school five days a week without having to work two Saturdays in a row. And I knew from the expression on Tom’s face that he was putting his great brain to work on how to bamboozle me into spading the garden by myself.

  “Tell you what I’m going to do, J. D.,” he said as he put his arm around my shoulders. “Out of the goodness of my heart I’m going to let you spade the garden by yourself and keep the half-dollar Papa always gives us for doing it.”

  Fifty cents was a fortune in those days. But I knew it would take me all day Saturday and part of Sunday to spade the garden by myself. And besides, every time Tom started talking about the goodness of his heart, I always ended up with the worst of the deal.

  “You aren’t going to bamboozle me into spading the garden by myself,” I said.

  “Who’s trying to bamboozle you?” Tom demanded as if I’d accused him of stealing candy from a two-year-old. “I made you a business proposition and a darn good one.”

  “If it is so darn good,” I said, “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. You spade the garden and you can have my twenty-five cents.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal,” Tom said. “Shake on it.”

  And before I could stop him he grabbed my hand and shook it to seal the bargain. I’d only said what I did because I was sure he would turn the offer down.

  “No deal,” I said. “I need that quarter to help buy a new air rifle.”

  Tom shook his head sadly. “When the news gets around town you won’t have one friend left,” he said. “None of the fellows will speak to you or have anything to do with you.”

  “What news?” I asked.

  “That you are a welcher,” Tom said. “A fellow who gives his word and shakes hands to seal a bargain and then backs out. I’ve certainly got to let the fellows know about it.”

  Boy, oh, boy, what a mess me and my big mouth had gotten me into. I knew that by the time Tom got through telling it no kid in town would have anything to do with me. To the fellows a welcher was about as popular as a wild skunk in a parlor. Tom had me over a barrel.

  “All right,” I said. “It is a deal. But I’m going to enjoy sitting right on these back porch steps and watching you work like a dog spading the garden.”

  “Watching me spade the garden?” Tom asked as if I had beans rattling around inside my head instead of brains. “My great brain has been working on a plan to get the garden spaded since last Saturday.”

  “But the deal was that you would spade the garden,” I protested.

  “No, it wasn’t,” Tom said. “You said if I did it that I could have your quarter. You didn’t say how I had to do it. As long as the garden gets spaded that is all that counts.” He stood up. “Come on, let’s go to Smith’s vacant lot and play until it’s time to do the chores.”

  Seth Smith’s father owned a big vacant lot almost half a block square. He let us kids use it as a playground in return for keeping it cleared of weeds. There were about twenty kids there when we arrived. Tom called to Danny Forester, Parley Benson, Seth Smith, and Pete Kyle, who were playing scrub football with some other kids.

  “How would you fellows like to go on a buried treasure hunt tomorrow morning?” he asked.

  Danny had something the matter with his left eyelid. It was always half closed unless he was excited, angry, or surprised. Then it would flip wide open.

  “How can you have a buried treasure in Utah, where there have never been any pirates?” he asked.

  “You don’t need pirates to have a buried treasure,” Tom said.

  Parley Benson, who wore his coonskin cap all the time when he was outside except when he went in swimming, pushed it to the back of his head.

  “What are you getting at, Tom?” he asked.

  “You four fellows come to my place tomorrow morning after chores and I’ll show you,” Tom said. “And make sure you all bring a shovel with you to dig for the buried treasure.”

  We played until it was time to go home and do the evening chores. Pete Kyle, who lived east of the railroad tracks, walked with us down Main Street. It was a wide street like in most Utah towns, covered with a foot of gravel so it wouldn’t be muddy when it rained. There were wooden sidewalks and hitching posts in front of the places of business, and the street was lined with trees planted by early Mormon pioneers. Most of the businesses and homes were west of the railroad tracks, which separated the town. East of the tracks were a couple of saloons, the Palace Cafe, the Sheepmen’s Hotel, a rooming house, a livery stable, a few homes, a couple of stores, and the campgrounds. Our home was on Main Street on the west side just a block from the business district. Tom stopped in front of our house to talk to Pete. I went around into the backyard. Eddie Huddle, who had been playing with Frankie, said it was time for him to go home. I sat on the back porch steps with Frankie waiting for Tom so we could do the evening chores.

  I only had a little brain, but I knew Tom’s great brain had come up with a scheme to get those four fellows to spade our vegetable garden. But the buried treasure part didn’t make any more sense to me than a bird trying to fly backwards.

  “Boy, oh, boy,” I said when Tom joined us, “when those fellows find out there is no buried treasure in our vegetable garden, they are going to be plenty mad at you.”

  “Who says there isn’t a buried treasure there?” Tom asked.

  “I do,” I said. “I’ve helped to spade the garden ever since I was old enough. There couldn’t be a buried treasure there or we would have found it a long time ago.”

  “Then put your money where your mouth is,” Tom said. “Bet you a quarter that Parley, or Seth, or Pete, or Danny find a buried treasure in our vegetable garden.”

  Every time I’d put my money where my mouth is with Tom I’d lost the bet. But this was one time I knew I’d win. Tom was just trying to stop me from telling the fellows they were being bamboozled into spading the garden for him.

  “A buried treasure means money or jewels,” I said.

  “And I’m betting one of the treasure hunters finds money or jewels worth at least a dollar,” Tom said.

  “You’ve got yourself a bet,” I said.

  * * *

  The next morning after chores Tom got four stakes from the woodshed. He divided the garden into four equal parts by drawing lines in the manure and dirt. Then he used the stakes to number each quarter of the garden from one to four. He had just finished when Seth, Pete, Danny, and Parley arrived.

  Tom pointed at the garden. “You have my word of honor,” he said, “that someplace in the vegetable garden there is a tin can with a silver dollar in it. That is the buried treasure. The first one to find it gets to keep the dollar. But there are certain rules for the buried treasure hunt. I want the garden spaded just as if it was your own.”

  Parley leaned on his shovel handle. “What if one of us finds the buried treasure befor
e the garden is all turned over?” he asked.

  “I was coming to that,” Tom said. “Before you can join the buried treasure hunt, you must all give me your word of honor that you’ll finish spading the garden no matter who finds the buried treasure.”

  They all gave their word of honor. Then Tom went to the back porch and took a straw from a broom which he broke into four different lengths. He came back holding the four straws so all we could see was the end of each straw.

  “I’m the only one who knows where the buried treasure is located,” he said. “To make it fair and square you will each draw a straw. The one who gets the longest straw will dig the quarter of the garden marked number one. The next longest the part marked number two, the next number three, and the shortest straw will dig number four. All right, Pete, you go first.”

  Pete got the longest straw, Danny the next longest, Seth the next, and Parley got the shortest straw.

  “All right, fellows,” Tom said, “the buried treasure hunt is about to begin. Start in the middle of your quarter and dig towards the ends. Take your places.”

  The four treasure hunters took their places.

  “Let’s go, fellows!” Tom shouted. “And see who has the lucky shovel that will find the buried treasure.”

  Boy, oh, boy, I’ll bet Parley, Danny, Seth, and Pete had never worked so hard and so fast digging their own vegetable gardens. They were really making the dirt fly as I sat on the back porch steps with Tom and Frankie watching them.

  “Is there really a silver dollar in a tin can buried in the garden?” I asked Tom, because it didn’t make sense to me.

  “I buried it there this morning while you and Frankie were watering the livestock,” Tom answered.

  “Then all I can say,” I said, “is that your great brain and money-loving heart must have taken a vacation. You’ll get fifty cents from Papa and you’ll win a quarter from me. That only adds up to seventy-five cents, which means it will cost you a quarter of your own money. You could have gotten Pete to spade the whole garden for fifty cents because his parents are poor.”