7. The Old Home

Well, every time Fred Jones went to the Big Town the Beavers rolled out the red carpet for him. The honest fact was, as both Jones and Beavers well knew, all the business they transacted on these occasions could have been handled by mail or telephone, but Jones had punched out quite a lot of shirt buttons and had built up his industry into one of the Beavers’ Better Accounts, and they could well afford to show him some hospitality. They urged him to bring Clara along. They met him when he arrived on the Twentieth Century. They gave him pairs of hard-to-get theater tickets. They lunched him at their best club while their wives took Clara on shopping tours. They slapped him on the back and called him Fritz. There was a cocktail party at the 21 Club. And so forth.

When it came time for Fred Jones to retire, he and Clara decided to make their home in New York. Joe and Alice, now in homes of their own, warned them against it. Joe, who was taking over the telegraph pole business, said, “You don’t know anybody in New York. You’ll miss your old friends.”

“The heck we don’t!” said Pa Jones.

“You mean the Beavers?”

“Of course I mean the Beavers, and all the people we met through them.”

“Well, I’m telling you, Pop, you’ll be sorry! That was just a business courtesy, that running about with the Beavers. You’ll see.”

“All right, all right; so I’ll see.”

“O.K., Pop: you win. But I want you to make two promises.”

“Maybe: let’s have a look at ’em.”

“Don’t tell anybody you’re moving to New York and don’t list the old home for sale; at least not for a month or two.”

“Good old Hal Thompson is going to be mighty sore if I don’t tell him. He’s coming over this afternoon to interview me about the retirement—and our plans: wants to do a front-page piece in The Clarion.”

“He won’t be sore if you don’t tell anybody else. You can wire him when you’re sure.”

“I’ve already listed the house for sale, with the Tuckers.”

“Tell Tucker you have changed your mind.”

“But I haven’t!”

Joe hustled back to his office and phoned Tuckers, taking a thirty-day option to buy the house and making a §500 retaining payment.

Fred was for taking the Beavers by surprise but Joe thought he’d better wire he was coming, as usual; so he did that. He did better than that. He sent a lengthy night letter: he was retiring. Joe was taking over. He and Clara were arriving Thursday on the Twentieth Century.

Next morning Joe had a long telegram from Beaver Brothers, Inc., congratulating him, wishing him well, hoping to see him soon. And warm regards to his fine old dad.

Quite a crowd of long-time friends saw them off. Clara wept a little. Fred was restless. When they pulled into the Grand Central they both lacked the gaiety they had always felt. Young Eager Beaver met them. Dad was laid up at home with a monstrous cold, Eager said, and Uncle Forest had gone to Chicago on business. Eager accompanied them in a taxi to the Plaza but couldn’t stay; he had a luncheon engagement. “We’ll be seeing you,” Eager said to his watch.

I had intended to tell you all of this story, but there is far too much disappointment in the world, as it stands, without raking the ashes for more of it. In this case there were only a few days of depression. Fritz wired Joe that they would be back on the twenty-first. Two dozen people came down to meet them. Joe had hauled up the flag at the old home which Pop flew only on national holidays.

“Yep,” Fritz would say, “New York’s all right for a week, but I shouldn’t care to live there.”

* * * * *