Will knew the price for having three children was to delay his return to the farm, but it wasn’t a bad tradeoff. He loved time with his girls, loved to read stories at bedtime. One night it was The Tale of Peter Rabbit, and on another it was Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales, but lately the girls begged him to read Winnie-the-Pooh and A.A. Milne’s new book, The House at Pooh Corner, stories about Pooh bear and his adventures in the Hundred Acre Woods. Will reread the stories so often that the girls knew them by heart, but they pleaded for more.
“Daddy, take Pooh to his thinking spot,” Catherine said.
But Ruby complained, “No, you did that last night. Read about the flood, about Owl losing his home.”
“It’s my turn to choose,” Sharon said. “Read about Christopher Robin’s birthday party.”
“Now girls, if we can’t agree on one, then we’ll have none.” Will closed the book and slid off the bed. Whenever the girls squabbled — and Sharon and Ruby squabbled often — Mary said that until they acted like proper young ladies they’d have to go without. And Will was happy to follow his wife’s advice. She knew children.
“Don’t go, Daddy,” Sharon said. Then she turned to Ruby. “Okay, we can have the flood tonight, but tomorrow night I get the birthday party.” She extended her hand. “Agreed?”
Ruby turned Catherine to her. “You’d like to hear the flood story, wouldn’t you, Cathy?” Then she whispered in her sister’s ear, but not so quiet that Will couldn’t hear, “I’ll tell you a new story about the thinking spot after Daddy turns out the light. Okay?”
Will smiled.
And Catherine agreed with Ruby. She always agreed with Ruby.
The girls tucked in and the light turned out, Will joined Mary in the parlor. “You sure have those girls figured out. When I closed the book and walked away, it didn’t take long for them to reach an agreement.”
“Compromise is easy when it’s the only way to get what you want,” Mary said.
“Just common sense,” Will said.
“I would think so, but given the problems parents have with their children these days, common sense isn’t all that common.”
“But you’re a teacher.”
“I suppose teachers have the same proportions of common sense as everyone else.” She dropped her last darned sock on top of five others in the clothes basket. “These should last you the rest of the year, then we should probably invest in new ones.”
“Speaking of investments, ours have done well.”
“Everyone says so. It seems we can’t lose. It’s probably time to buy more.”
“I’m thinking about selling.”
“Why’d you do that?”
“This can’t go on forever, my dear.” He took his corncob from the writing desk drawer. “Grandpa Duffy didn’t give me his farm, but he gave lots of advice.” Will touched a flaming match to the bowl. “That was part of our problem. Frank listened while I had my own ideas. But I do remember one thing he said.” Will took two deep draws and blew smoke across the room. “Once, when I paid two dollars for a bike, polished it up, but turned down four dollars because I thought I could get five, he said, ‘Son, don’t get greedy. You’ll never go broke selling at a profit.’”
“But, Will, everyone says there’s lots more money to be made.”
“That’s what makes me uneasy. When everyone’s in, who’s left to buy? We’ve done well. We’ve almost made enough to retire our house and business loans. It’s time to cash out.”
“Oh, Will, I hate to sell the hen that lays the golden eggs.”
“I’ll tell you what, Mary. I think it’s time for a second honeymoon. Lets take some of that profit and go back to Madison, but this time, let’s do it right. Let’s stay at the new hotel across from the Capitol Building.”
“I hear it’s exquisite. And the new Orpheum Theatre. It’s just down the street.” She threw her arms around him with so much fervor that she almost knocked the pipe from his hand. “Maybe a talkie will be playing. Why, there’s no writing on the screen. Did you know the actors really talk, and you can hear them?”
What Will knew was that he’d hit the jackpot. Whatever displeasure Mary had about his intent to sell stocks was already forgotten, it seemed.
But he wasn’t so fortunate when his father drove up the next morning. Will could tell by the way his wagon bounced off the cobblestone street that it wasn’t loaded. “You’re not so full today, Dad. How come?”
“I couldn’t take the time. Wanted to catch Tate before he closes at noon.”
“What business could you have with David? You’re not buying into this market, are you?”
“No, Will, I’m taking your advice. I made a little profit. I’m selling. I wanta free up some money.”
* * *
Will thought that David Tate would try to convince him otherwise, but he was resolute. “David, my mind’s made up. I’m selling the whole kit and caboodle.”
“All your stocks?”
“Yep, all of them, and you’ll not talk me out of it. I’m going to pay off my loans.”
“As you wish. But it’ll take a couple days. My ticker tape’s on the blink. I should have it back late tomorrow, at least by Wednesday morning.”
“You’re not going to talk me out of it?”
“Is that what you want, for me to talk you out of it?”
“Mary would.”
“Too many have every dime they’ve got in the market. By the way, I shouldn’t be telling you, but your Dad bought more.”
“He said he was selling. He’s not on margin, is he? It’s not the stock he’s buying that worries me: it’s those letters that Mom said he’s getting.”
“I don’t think he’s done margin. Let’s see.” David sorted through the pile of orders that cluttered his desk.
“He probably didn’t mention it, but someone’s been sending letters predicting market moves.”
“That’s not new. Everyone thinks he can predict the market.”
“But this guy’s been right every time.”
“Yeah?” David leaned toward Will.
“The man’s written about a half-dozen letters, each predicting whether the market will rise or fall. And he’s always right.”
“That’s weird. I don’t believe in seers.” David lifted a paper from the pile. “No, he didn’t do margin. Does the man ask for money?”
“Dad says no, but maybe he wouldn’t tell me.”
“I know a fellow at the Branch Bank of Wisconsin in Madison. He knows what those scam artists are up to.”
“Mary and I are going to Madison next week on a second honeymoon. I’ll check then. What’s his name?”
“Samuel Darch. Smart fella.”