The Golden Ball

By John G. Watson

D. L. Dugan was a prospector, Spanish American war hero, and a successful businessman. He was also miser, who cut his own hair and stuffed his shoes with cardboard. He had his hoard of gold bars melted down and molded into a ball so heavy, no thief could make off with it. His hobo grandnephew, who resides in a junkyard with three other bums, later inherits the ball, but assumes it's worthless. The four hilarious bunglers dream of riches, but spend the bulk of their time relaxing in the shade, and though they have little, they are always willing to share with their wayfaring brothers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462054794

John G. Watson

John G. Watson grew up in southern Wisconsin, served in the Air Force and is retired from General Motors. He has been a member of the Janesville Area Writers Club since 1995.

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The Golden Ball

John Watson

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

The Golden Ball

Copyright © 2005, 2011 by John Watson.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-5478-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-5479-4 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 09/29/2011

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

INTRODUCTION

Part I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part II

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The Golden Ball is an adult version of stories I used tell my children many years ago. Without the encouragement of John Jr., Becky, Bill, Tom and Steve, I never would have published it. Thanks, kids. Thanks also to my wife, Ione, for her patience and support, the Janesville Area Writers Club, in particular long-time member Mary Farley, for her critique, my daughter-in-law, Laura, for her helpful suggestions, and especially her computer savvy sister, Sara, who helped prepare my manuscript.

INTRODUCTION

As a youth growing up in Cleveland, D.L. Dugan seldom spent a penny for his own personal enjoyment. Calculating interest rates crowded out thoughts of girls, and he vowed to be a millionaire by the age of forty. He became skilled in the use of explosives, but after a close call with some unstable dynamite took a lumberyard job in Chicago. He spent two years in the Yukon gold fields and served in Cuba during the Spanish-American War. After the war, he worked for a mining company in Mexico until forced out by a revolution, narrowly escaping death. He then returned to Chicago and started a demolition business. His fervent desire to achieve a particular end came at a great cost to himself.

Toward the latter part of D.L.’s golden years, four hoboes quit the road to take over a dying junkyard adjoining the southern Illinois town of Wausauka. Rube, the self appointed leader; Herman, who seldom exerts himself, Dunce, D.L.s grandnephew, who often feels put upon, and Spotty, who enjoys cooking if he has the wherewithal. They reside in a tarpaper shanty and live by scrounging and selling parts. Traces of a driveway encircle their front yard before petering out amongst the wrecks. In the middle of this circle (and the center of their social life) stands the moonshine tree, or so they call it, for many a batch of alcohol had bubbled to fruition beneath it during Prohibition. The tree’s branches stretch wide enough to shelter an army platoon, and it may well have as a contingent of General Grant’s troops once passed this way. The four proprietors spend much of their time relaxing in its shade, and though they dream of good fortune, fail to exploit the wealth at their fingertips.

Part I

The Miser

Chapter 1

The Early Years

Born in 1869, D.L. Dugan grew up in an orphanage and learned early on the value of money. As a shoeshine boy, he was always thinking up ways to jump change as he expressed it, from his customers’ pockets into his own. Some people, he noticed, had a perverse sense of humor. Instead of handing him their penny, they would flip it into the muddy gutter or onto a nearby pile of horse manure. In a burst of insight, he decided to give these sports a challenge. He placed a battered spittoon near his box, and human nature being what it is, nearly doubled his take. The big spenders were inclined to flip several pennies, and it was a simple matter afterward to wipe the coins clean.

One day while skipping along a busy street, he spotted a nickel at the edge of the cobblestones. As he pounced for this treasure, the tip of a cane pinned the coin tight against the sidewalk. He looked up in dismay to see a well-dressed old man with mutton chop whiskers and a top hat.

’Tis mine, sonny, crackled the old man as he stooped to pick it up. I saw it first. He put the coin deep inside his overcoat pocket and proceeded on his way, leaving the snot-nosed child in a state of disbelief.

Well that will never see the light of day again, exclaimed a middle-aged cabbie who was resting his horse by the curb. Too bad, kid, but you just got beat out by Old Pete Shipley himself, the richest man in Cleveland.

If he’s so rich, why didn’t he leave me that nickel?

Because he’s a money-grubbing son of a bitch. Excuse my language, kid, but if you ever want to be a millionaire that’s the way to do it. Grab what you can and hang onto it. Oh, oh, gotta go. Someone is waving at me down the block. Giddy up, Hortense. He flicked the horse’s reins and drove off in his two-wheeled conveyance, leaving D.L. to ponder his advice.

*   *   *

D.L. did not see the rich old man again until a few years later, when he landed a groundskeeper and all around gopher’s job at the Shipley estate. This paid the grand sum of eight dollars a month plus room and board. It was here where D.L.’s hoarding habits, already well established, were reinforced.

Old Pete, a ruthless banking tycoon, had made his fortune through Civil War profiteering and sharp business practices. His reputation was such that just being around him caused many of his associates to double check their wallets, as one disgruntled colleague put it. While it’s doubtful that he ever stole the pennies off a dead man’s eyes, as some people so alleged, he would not have been above checking for rare mint marks and making a discreet switch if the opportunity presented itself. The consensus was that it would take more than his magnifying glass to find what few scruples he may have had.

He took particular delight in personally collecting the rent from his numerous holdings, and though Puritan ethics forbade taking advantage of a poor widow’s virtue, he had no qualms when it came to eviction. He moved one distraught mother and her four children out on the street Christmas Eve Day, yet he faithfully attended church every Sunday. Only the Good Lord knew what he put in the plate, but it could not have been much. He had one son, also a tightwad, who seldom came around, apparently secure in the knowledge of his inheritance. Old Pete’s wife had died giving birth, and he never remarried. While many women would have loved the abundance, few could have coped with his stinginess.

Siegfried, Shipley’s butler, was frugal in his own right (how could you work there all those years and not be?), but every month he was taken to task over the household accounts and given a humiliating lecture on thrift. Now white-haired and stooped from arthritis, Siegfried dreamed of going back to his beloved Fatherland before he died. The promise of a small inheritance was the only reason he stayed on. Given his own age, however, plus Old Pete’s ability to bounce back from any illness, brought to mind the nagging question of who would end up in the bone yard first.

As the years tightened their grip, so did Old Pete’s purse strings, and since Siegfried had to run the household on an ever-shrinking budget, table fare was plain indeed. Gruel, prunes, and a poached egg was the standard breakfast. A typical lunch consisted of fried side pork or the cheaper cuts of meat, along with beans and boiled vegetables, usually potatoes or turnips, while supper was invariably a stew of leftovers. Seldom were any sweets served unless it was a special occasion. On their days off, the help was supposed to eat elsewhere.

D.L. worked under Sean No Win Quinn, a sad-faced little man who was in charge of the stables and who, as the nickname suggested, seldom won anything in his life. Sean loved to watch sporting events, but had somehow gotten the reputation as a hexer. The Cleveland Crowhawks claimed their batting averages slumped severely with No Win in the stands, and the team’s manager always hustled him out with never a thought to his civil rights.What should have been a pushover for Ten Ton Teskie, the cauliflower eared pride of Cleveland, turned into a disaster when a virtual unknown knocked him out in the first round, all because No Win was sitting at ringside, and just spotting his pathetic puss hanging around the two-dollar window gave racing fans the willies.

Sean started wearing disguises to the ball games, and in desperation, the Crowhawk’s manager stooped to bribery. He took up a collection before each home game, and then made sure the purse was waiting for Sean at the ticket window. If it was an important game, this could amount to over ten dollars, a handsome sum indeed.

Old Pete liked to take a morning constitutional around the grounds, and finding a penny or two put him in a good mood the rest of the day. Siegfried made sure there were coppers to be found. He did this by taxing the help ten cents each every month, which he called Peter’s Pence, with the shortfall coming out of his own pocket. It was D.L.’s task to run on ahead and scatter a few along the path. There was always a strict accounting between the amount scattered and the amount found.

As time went on, Old Pete’s appetite for change grew. He complained to Siegfried that all he ever saw was pennies, and it would be nice to find a nickel or even a dime occasionally. Siegfried could not expect the help to donate more than they were, or he would have a revolt on his hands. Moreover, once Pete started finding nickels and dimes, how long would it take him to want quarters and halves? There was nothing for it but to raid the Old man’s change jar and feed him back his own coins. Pete got suspicious, however, and started counting the big jar’s contents everyday. After jotting down the tally, he would hide the slip of paper in his vest pocket next to his heart. Poor Siegfried, there was nowhere else to turn except the already overstrained household budget. The plain fare became plainer; no more prunes in the oatmeal, and meat only every other day, this at a time when steak sold for eighteen cents a pound with liver thrown in.

Although D.L. sometimes put in long hours, the work was light, and he enjoyed it. He also had two Saturday afternoons off each month plus every other Sunday. For amusement, he would walk downtown, or wander around in the large cemetery bordering the estate admiring monuments and reading epitaphs. He never spent anything on himself except for bare necessities, and maybe a watermelon or two during the season. He took great delight in looking them over at the market place, and giving each one a ritual thump before haggling with the vender. Heaven to D.L. was a gigantic melon patch. Other than splurging on this one weakness, the bulk of his meager wage ended up in Shipley’s bank.

It was about this time that he became a Friend of the Flat Earth Society, for to become a member cost dues. The Stove Lids, as they were commonly called, held their meetings above a harness shop and sponsored many lively debates. They also served a free lunch. D.L. enjoyed the fellowship, and found he had a potential for public speaking. Over a year’s time, he helped increase their numbers, and in appreciation was made an honorary member. Funerals were another good source of food, and he attended them whenever he could. Nobody questioned his presence.

Meanwhile, he had grown into a tall, lanky youth, with all the normal urges, but sensitive about his hooked nose. Calculating interest rates, however, helped crowd out thoughts of girls, and he vowed to be a millionaire by the age of forty. Then there would be plenty of time to seek a wife and enjoy the fruits of his labor. He forgot his intentions one day when he saw a pretty, blond-haired girl coming out of the cemetery, and the following week he spotted her a second time kneeling in front of two recently mounded graves. From chatting with the workers, he found out her name was Helen, and she had just buried her parents. After that, he never strayed far from the vicinity during his walks hoping to catch glimpses of her. Though she always smiled sweetly at him, he could not bring himself to approach her, and he never saw her again after that summer, except in his dreams.

One afternoon, while taking a leisurely stroll through the cemetery, the head caretaker came hurrying after him. Would you like to make some extra money?

You bet I would, D.L. replied.

There have been a lot of deaths lately, the man said, and one of my helpers is sick. It’s almost sundown now, but do you think you could hack out a six foot hole by yourself and have it ready by morning? There’s two dollars in it."

Two dollars? D.L. jumped at the opportunity, and literally dug his first grave by moonlight. The caretaker marveled at the pit’s straight edges and the neat pile of dirt beside it. He promised D.L. the next opening.

Later on that fall, D.L.’s chance came. After bidding good-by to the Shipley household, he took up a shovel and never looked back. The following spring, he had the task of digging his former employer’s grave. It so happened that on this very spot, millions of years ago, a point of bedrock had thrust up to just below the surface before falling away steeply on all sides. Since Old Pete’s had always maintained that he wanted to be buried in the exact center of his large plot, there would be no moving the site by even a few feet. The caretaker called in his brother, who worked with dynamite, and he blasted a hole in short order.

Wow! D.L. stood mesmerized by this irresistible force, and the whiff of spent power was like an aphrodisiac.

According to Old Pete’s dying wish, he was laid to rest with his beloved change jar, which now contained nothing but pennies, and not too many of them. The silver had mysteriously disappeared, perhaps picked over by his greedy son. Siegfried received nothing for his years of faithful service, and even found himself accused of padding the household accounts. He left a broken man and died in a cheap rooming house that same year.

After helping erect a huge chunk of granite over Old Pete’s eternal home, D.L. went to work for his boss’s brother. He traveled around the state, doing everything from demolishing buildings to blasting out tunnels. Handling the fickle explosives was a tricky business, but he was an apt pupil. Most importantly, he learned never to take anything for granted. Unlike other trades, one mistake could be your last. They even had a saying: There are no old powder monkeys.

*   *   *

D.L. stayed with his mentor several years before striking out on his own. He continued to visit cemeteries, his favorite pastime, and still argued that the Earth was flat. One day outside Damascus, Ohio, he came upon a farmer with a wagonload of watermelons and a loose wheel. Hoping for a free melon, D.L. stopped to help. The farmer had built a pile of rocks to use as a fulcrum and was in the process of prying up the axle with a long rail ripped from a nearby fence. D.L. had no more put his shoulder to the wheel when the load shifted. A twenty-pound melon rolled off the top and fell on his head, knocking him momentarily unconscious.

When he came to, it was as though the scales had fallen from his eyes. The Earth was not flat at all, but round like the moon. It was as plain as the wart on the farmer’s nose. In addition he had seen something yellow glittering under the North Star. The vision quickly faded.

Ye all right? the farmer asked, after first inspecting his melon. "Whew, thought for a minute there it might have