Common Cause by Samuel Hopkins Adams & Amy Solomon Whitehead & John Maxwell Hamilton

Author:Samuel Hopkins Adams & Amy Solomon Whitehead & John Maxwell Hamilton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC014000 Fiction / Historical
Publisher: Potomac Books

20

Buddy Higman, prosperous in a new blue-and-yellow mackinaw (Christmas), a pair of fur mittens (New Year’s), and high snow-boots (accumulated savings), entered the Fenchester Post-Office with the mien of one having important business with the Government. Four dollars a week was now Buddy’s princely stipend from The Guardian, for working before and after school hours at a special job of clipping and sorting advertisements from the press of the State, for purposes of comparison.

Occasionally Buddy brought in an item of news, with all the pride of a puppy bringing in a mouse, and beat it out with two fingers on a borrowed typewriter. Such of these contributions as got into print were paid for extra. Thereby Buddy was laboriously building up a bank account. It was young Mr. Higman’s intention to be, one day, Governor of the State. But in his wilder and more untrammeled flights, he hoped to be an editor like Mr. Robson. Buddy was an enthusiastic, even a hierophantic worker at his job. He was worth all that The Guardian paid him. Even had he not been, the Boss would have kept him on. For he was, all unknowing, a link; decidedly a tenuous link, but the only permanent and reliable one, between Jeremy and a foregone past.

At the stamp window Mr. Burton Higman, dealing with the United States Government, produced a silver dollar and gave his order in a firm and manly voice.

“Hullo, Buddy,” greeted the clerk. “Still got that girl in Yurrup, I see.”

A fire sprang and spread in Mr. Higman’s face. “And the rest in postal-cards,” he directed with dignity.

“You’re our best little customer,” continued the flippant clerk. (The little customer murderously contemplated arranging with The Guardian, later, to write an editorial about him and get him fired!) “Write to her every day, don’t che?”

“Shuttup, y’ ole fool!” retorted the infuriate youth, stepping aside to reckon up his purchase, lest it might be short.

“Yessir,” continued the blatant gossip, to the next comer. “He sure is the ready letter-writer, only an’ original. Don’t see how he has time to help you edit your paper, Mr. Robson.”

Mr. Robson! The shock diverted Buddy at the twenty-eighth count. He looked up into the friendly face of the Boss.

He hastened to defend himself.

“I yain’t, either, Mr. Robson. ’T ain’t letters at all. They’re fer noospapers.”

“Are they?” said his chief, walking out into the wintry air with him. “I didn’t know we had so much foreign circulation, Buddy.”

“No, sir; we ain’t. Say, Boss,” he added after a pause, “we gained five new ads on The Record this week, an’ they only got one that we didn’t.”

“Good business, Buddy.”

“An’ I had two sticks in the paper yesterday. Dje see it? Story of the kid that fell through the ice.”

“You’ll be a reporter one of these days, son.”

“Oh, gee!” said Buddy ecstatically. Then, with resentment, “What’s the good of school, anyway?”

“If you’re going to be a real newspaper man you’ll need all the education you can get.”

“Yes, sir.” The aspiring neophyte sighed. “That’s what She says.

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