More Adventures Of The Great Brain (12 page)

   
“You can go tell Tom he can start selling his newspaper now,” he said.

Basil ran out of the jail but I stayed.

“You squealer!”
Jackson shouted at Williams.

“I didn’t squeal,” Williams said. “I thought you did.”

“I sure didn’t,” Jackson said.

   
Hank Williams pushed his face between the bars of his cell. “How did you ever figure it, Marshal?” he pleaded.

   
“I didn’t,” Uncle Mark said as he took the copy of the Bugle from his pocket and handed it to Williams.

   
“The boy who is the editor and publisher of this newspaper and his reporter solved the robbery.”

   
I never in my life saw such a flabbergasted look on a robber’s face as Williams read the story in the Bugle.

   
“I wouldn’t have minded so much, Marshal,” he said as if he wanted to cry, “
if
it had been you.
But a couple of kids.

The boys at the State Pen will ride Frank and me plenty for this.”

“What is going on?” Jackson hollered from his cell.

   
“Don’t tell him, Marshal,” Williams pleaded. “It will make him cry.”

   
Uncle Mark passed the copy of the Bugle to Jackson. Then we heard a lot of commotion in the street. I ran outside with Uncle Mark. I could see our reporters waving copies of the Bugle in the air on every corner on Main Street. I could hear them shouting: “Bank robbery solved! Read all about it in the Bugle!
A penny a copy!”

   
And boy, oh boy, were they doing a land-office business. People were running out of stores and out of their homes and buying up copies of the Bugle like I’d never seen anybody buy anything in my life. But it was strange how people standing on Main Street reading the Bugle were acting. Some of the men were slapping each other on the back. Some of the men and women were reading and just staring as if they couldn’t believe the robbery had been solved. Some were laughing, while others looked positively angry.

   
I felt Uncle Mark’s hand on my shoulder. “I’d better take the stolen money back to the bank now,” he said.

   
I ran back to the barn to tell Tom that the first edition of the Bugle was a big success. I found my brother sitting behind his desk with his green eye shade pushed up on his forehead and his thumbs hooked under his armpits.

   
“You did it, T.D.!” I shouted. “People are buying the Bugle like they never bought the Advocate: You proved to Papa you are old enough and smart enough to be a journalist.”

   
Tom nodded modestly. “Papa has often told us about the wars between rival newspapers in Utah,” he said. “If he doesn’t give me a job on the Advocate now, it will be war between the Bugle and the Advocate. And I’ll scoop him every week.”

   
Just then Sammy, Danny, and Jimmie came running into the barn. They told Tom they were sold out.

   
“We’ll print another hundred copies,” Tom said. “J.D., you run down to the Advocate office and tell Papa I’ll need some more newsprint.”

   
I ran all the way to the Advocate office but didn’t go inside because I couldn’t. There was a big crowd on the wooden sidewalk and in the street in front of the office. Papa was standing in the doorway looking as if he wished he was on a deserted island. He was holding a copy of the Bugle in his hand. I couldn’t blame Papa for the way he looked. Tom had really scooped him good.

   
And you never saw such a commotion. Mrs. Haggerty was shouting insults at Papa. Sarah Pickens was crying. Mrs. Lee was hysterical, with two other women trying to quiet her down. The Widow Rankin was screaming she was going to sue Papa. Mr. Bates and Steve Andrews were fighting. Danny’s father, Mr. Forester, and his brother-in-law, Dan Thomas, were taking off their coats and getting ready to fight. The rest of the
crowd were
laughing like it was all a big joke.

   
Then Uncle Mark, who must have just returned from the bank where he’d taken the stolen money, pushed his way through the crowd to Papa’s side. He took out his Colt .45 and fired a couple of shots in the air. Everybody shut up and stared at him.

   
“You men stop that fighting and arguing and you women stop that shouting and crying or I’ll throw all of you in jail for disturbing the peace,” Uncle Mark said.

   
Everybody in town knew Uncle Mark never made idle threats. The fighting stopped and there was complete silence.

   
“If any of you have complaints to make,” Uncle Mark said, “you will act like law-abiding citizens and come to my office and sign a complaint. If any of you think you have grounds for a libel suit, you will consult your attorney and act on his advice. I will not tolerate a mob. Now break up this crowd and go about your business.”

   
“Just a moment,” Papa said. “I have something I would like to say. I cannot condone what my son has done and assure you who are concerned that he will be severely punished. But the fact remains that he and Basil Kokovinis did solve the bank robbery. If it had not been for these two boys, many of you who are depositors at the bank would have lost your money.”

   
That made the crowd think
, as many began to nod their heads. Then Papa held up a copy of the Bugle.

   
“As for the local news column,” he said, “none of it is really news except for the pups the
Winters
‘ family have to give away, and the kittens the Carters have to give away, and the item about the boys in town clearing the weeds from the Smiths’ vacant lot. Nothing else in this local news column is news because they are things that people in this town have known about for some time.
All my
son has done is to bring out into the open what has been said over backyard fences. I admit it was a cruel thing to do, and in very bad taste, but he is only a boy and didn’t know any better. I apologize to each of you for what he has done and will make him apologize to each of you. Thank you for listening to me.”

   
The crowd broke up, but Papa looked to be as angry as a burro with a cocklebur under his pack saddle. He walked so swiftly toward our house that I had to run to keep up with him. He didn’t slow down or stop until he entered our barn, where Tom and the reporters were waiting.

“Where is the newsprint?” Tom asked as if surprised.

   
“I’ll newsprint you,” Papa said, and I thought from the way he said it that Tom was due for the first whipping of his life. Then Papa sort of swallowed a couple of times. “Ask your friends to leave,” he said.

All the reporters left except me.

   
Tom leaned back on his nail keg chair and pushed his green eye shade up on his forehead. “What is the idea?” he asked as if just curious and not scared at all.

   
Papa’s face turned red and his cheeks puffed up like a squirrel with a jarful of nuts. He sat down on a bale of hay. Finally he spoke.

   
“You have caused your mother and me more anguish and embarrassment in one day than all the kids in town put together could cause their parents in a year,” Papa said.

   
To my astonishment Tom grinned. “Are you sure you aren’t just upset because I scooped the Advocate, Papa?” he asked.

   
“Solving the bank robbery was good journalism,” Papa admitted. “You and Basil did the community, and especially the depositors at the bank, a great service.”

   
Tom nodded wisely. “I guess that proves I’m old enough to learn how to run the Washington Press and help you at the Advocate,” he said.

   
“I haven’t finished yet,” Papa said. “Your local news column except for three items wasn’t news fit to print. In the first place it wasn’t news at all because every adult in town already knew about the Haggertys, Sarah Pickens, Mrs. Lee’s brother, and all the rest of it. In the second place it was a type of journalism that feeds on
scandal, that
hurts people, and is in very bad taste.”

Papa paused for a moment to let this sink in. “A good journalist doesn’t deliberately hurt people just to sell newspapers,” he said. “It is true a good newspaperman seeks to expose evil when that evil is a threat to the community. If a public official is corrupt, it is the duty of a newspaper editor to expose that official as being corrupt, because a newspaper is thereby performing a good service for the community.
But when you print that Mrs. Haggerty’s nagging drives her husband to drink, and all the other scandal in your local news column, that is an invasion of their privacy and subject to libel laws.
Moreover, it performs no useful service for the community. Your mother and I do quarrel on occasions as you are well aware. It is a part of married life. But how would you like it if somebody printed in a newspaper that your mother and I were fighting like cats and dogs all the time?”

   
I’d never seen Tom’s face
so
dejected as he bit his lower lip. “I was only trying to prove to you that I wasn’t just a kid anymore,” he said in a whisper. “I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.”

   
“I got the message in your editorial,” Papa said. “But the only thing you proved to me was that you are too young to do anything for me at the Advocate except to deliver it.”

   
Then Papa stood up. “You have done a terrible thing and must be punished for it,” he said. “You will never have the opportunity to publish another edition of the Bugle. I’m going to have the Ramage Press and type crated and taken back to the Advocate office. That will be only part of your punishment. You will do your chores without any allowance for the next four weeks and your mother and I will impose the silent treatment for the same period of time. And tomorrow, you will go around and personally apologize to everybody slandered in the Bugle.”

I sure felt sorry for Tom but guess I must have looked sort of relieved because I wasn’t included in the punishment.

   
“Wipe that smirk off your face, J.D.,” Papa said. “For your part in this, you are also included in the silent treatment.”

“But Papa
  
” I started to protest I was an innocent victim but he just walked out of the barn. The silent treatment had begun.

   
I looked at Tom. “Your great brain sure got us into a mess this time,” I said, putting the blame where I felt it belonged.

“Beat it, J.D.,” he said. “I want to be alone.”

 
  
I left the barn and shut the door. I walked part way across our corral and then sneaked back and peeked into the barn through a knothole. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Tom sat at his desk with his head cradled in his arms, and his shoulders were shaking. Even outside the barn I could hear the muffled sobs coming from his throat. The Great Brain was crying! I couldn’t ever remember seeing him cry before. Even when he fell one time while we were playing follow-the-leader and had broken his arm, he didn’t cry.

The Death of Old Butch

   
IT WAS JUST A COUPLE OF WEEKS after I’d seen Tom cry for the first time that a dog named Old Butch died. He was a mongrel dog, who was everybody’s dog, and yet he was nobody’s dog. I know that sounds funny, but it is true. He had big ears like a hound dog, a squat body like a bulldog, and only the good Lord knows how many other breeds were in his ancestry. He was mostly black and brown with white spots.

   
Nobody knew where Old Butch came from. Mr. Harmon, who ran the Z.C.M.I. store, believed the dog was left behind accidently by some people passing through town. Maybe he was right because Old Butch made his home in a packing case behind the store, and sometimes he’d sit for hours is front of the store as if waiting for the people to come back for him.

   
Some of those people must have been kids because Old Butch really loved kids. He was like a godsend to every kid in town whose parents wouldn’t let them own a dog. He’d play with them and let them pretend he was their dog whenever they wanted. And there are times when a boy really needs a dog. I know when I was getting the silent treatment, there were many times when I went down behind the barn to cry, and my dog Brownie was always there to comfort me. He’d lick the tears from my face and let me hug him while he comforted me. And I knew a lot of kids in town who didn’t have a dog who would head straight for Old Butch after getting a whipping. Old Butch would lick their faces and comfort them.

   
Grownups liked Old Butch too. They would stop and pat him on the head whenever they met him. But he just wouldn’t let anybody really own him. He made his rounds every day. He’d stop in front of the Deseret Meat Market first. He didn’t beg. He’d just sit on the wooden sidewalk until Mr. Thompson came out and gave him a bone or some scraps. And he would go behind the Palace Cafe and sit until Mr. Kokovinis brought him some scraps. And the kids who didn’t own a dog would sneak food out of their homes for Old Butch. He was probably the best fed dog in town.