Black Duck by Janet Taylor Lisle

Author:Janet Taylor Lisle [Lisle, Janet Taylor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781101663066
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2007-09-06T04:00:00+00:00

KNUCKLING UNDER

THE MINUTE I GOT HOME FROM TOM Morrison’s that afternoon, I took that torn-in-half fifty-dollar bill out of my geometry book, rolled it up the way it had been and hid it back inside Tony Mordello’s tobacco pouch. Then I stuffed the tobacco pouch under my mattress and sat down on top.

A picture of the Black Duck coming in at Tyler’s Beach rose into my mind. I had no doubt now who the dark, laughing man at the pilot’s wheel had been. Billy Brady was carrying on his family tradition. The cocky skipper whose crew outran the Coast Guard night after night, who threw up ingenious smoke screens and vanished like Robin Hood into their mists, was from Harveston, right up the road. Part of me was breathless that he was somebody I knew.

But another part lay low and cautious. There’d been something a little too pushy about Billy’s interest in Tony Mordello’s ticket. I hadn’t liked how he’d pressed me about it, and now that I’d lied about having it, I didn’t want to go back. The best thing for me, I decided, was to pretend I’d never opened that tobacco pouch.

And that was what I did. As the weeks went by, the danger seemed to pass. The pouch stayed where it was, squashed under my mattress, a strange souvenir I couldn’t quite bring myself to throw away. No one else bothered me about the rolled-up bill, and whatever Tony Mordello’s secret deal had been, I supposed it was as dead as he was. His fabulous shipment had ended up in somebody else’s hands and it wasn’t up to me to worry about whose they were.

Even as one problem seemed to clear up for me, though, another was developing for our family.

With Mr. Riley in jail, my father became responsible for more than just the day-to-day operations of the store. Goods ordered from Boston, such as tobacco and dress fabric, hardware items and a line of footwear carried by the store, now fell under his supervision. He spent more time on the telephone and longer hours over the account books. He was rarely home for supper, even on weekends.

It got so bad that my mother started bringing his evening meal to the store, determined he’d have it hot and on time. Often, she’d stay if he needed help with shelving or pricing. I spent these evenings at home. I wasn’t expected to work overtime no matter what was happening at the store. It was a given in our family that my schoolwork was more important, that I’d be following in my father’s footsteps soon enough, learning the business of running a store, which, in our town back then, was about as important and well-paying a job as could be found.

Being manager of Riley’s store was to be a gift my father would pass on to me, and up until that spring of 1929, there seemed no reason that he wouldn’t be able to. His position seemed rock solid. He was well-liked and trusted, a beacon of honesty in the community.

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