By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, October 27, 1945.
“Lady Luck,” chuckled Jimmy Frise, “is sure smiling on me!”
“It’s about time,” I suggested.
“This is a real break,” said Jim, “with the coal shortage and all.”
“Coal? Ah,” I alerted.
“Yes, coal,” pursued Jim eagerly. “I was talking to my next door neighbor last night. Just casually chatting. And he says he is going to have to close up his house this winter as his firm is sending him to California.”
“You’re going to get his coal?” I exclaimed.
“No, it’s even better than that,” enthused Jim. “It so happens that he hasn’t laid in any coal at all for this winter, as he was expecting to have to go south for his firm.”
“Go on,” I urged.
“Well, sir,” tantalized Jim, “he tells me that one of his friends has installed a new oil burner. And this friend has two tons of coal in his cellar, left over from last winter. And he wants to get rid of it.”
“He should have no trouble,” I submitted.
“He offered it,” announced Jim sensationally, “to my next door neighbor for nothing. If – and here’s the catch – if my neighbor would arrange to transfer the coal from the other guy’s bin to my neighbor’s.”
“And he’s going south?” I caught on.
“So,” triumphed Jim, “my bin being full, and my neighbor’s empty, what more natural than that my neighbor accepts the offer, stores the two tons in his bin. And I get it!”
“Well, that is a break,” I agreed heartily. “It’ll be no trouble to shift a couple of bags every day or so across the side drive. And that’s all the distance it is.”
“I’ll have to carry it up my neighbor’s cellar stairs,” explained Jim, “and down mine. It’ll be a chore. But think of two tons of coal for nothing! Not a cent. And this year of all years, when coal is millions of tons short.”
“Some people,” I said, “have all the luck.”
“Little breaks like this,” sighed Jim happily, “make life worth while.”
“Isn’t your neighbor going to rent his house while he’s away?” I inquired.
“Not him,” asserted Jim. “He doesn’t want strangers wrecking his place. He’s got a swell little home. Beautiful furniture and lovely new drapes and all. His wife wouldn’t dream of renting it.”
“But there’s a housing shortage,” I pointed out. “It doesn’t seem right for a man to be away all winter and leave a house idle. A house that would shelter half a dozen people. Maybe a returned soldier and his family.”
“Aw, now, never mind the high moral tone,” scoffed Jim. “You’re just jealous of my luck. Would you rent your house if you were going to be away two or three months?”
“Well, of course, my house is full of old books,” I pointed out, “and fishing tackle and stuff. I could hardly have strangers living among all those fragile and perishable things…”
“Everybody, except people without any sentiment,” said Jim, “feels the same way about their homes.”
“It seems to me,” I said righteously, “that the National Housing Board ought to have some say in a matter of this kind. Nobody should be allowed, in times like these, to leave a house untenanted.”
An Ugly Thought
“I suppose,” said Jim, “you’re trying to blackmail half the coal out of me? Well, it’s too far to carry to your house. But it’s just across the alley from me.”
He rubbed his hands appreciatively.
“Who’s going to pay,” I inquired, “for transferring the coal from the other guy’s house to your neighbor’s?”
“Well, that’s just the point,” said Jim amiably. “We called up half a dozen coal dealers and asked them what it would cost, and they just hung up.”
“Hung up?” I questioned.
“Coal dealers,” explained Jim, “are nearly crazy trying to fill their orders now. And are they going to waste time transferring coal from one house to another, coal they have no interest in? Coal they didn’t sell?”
“Aaah,” I mused.
There’s the guy who has the coal,” outlined Jim, “who is installing a new oil burner. Not only does he not need the coal. It is in his way. He’s got to use the space of his coal bins for fuel storage tanks. He wants that coal out of there. Right away.”
“That’s why he will give it away,” I realized.
“Precisely,” said Jim. “And here’s my neighbor, with his bins empty. But he doesn’t need the coal. Because he’s going to be away all winter.”
“And you…” I concluded.
“I, in return for watching over my neighbor’s house,” announced Jim, “can have the coal stored in my next door neighbor’s bins. If.”
“If?” I followed.
“If I can arrange to transfer the coal,” said Jim.
I began to get uneasy.
“Surely there is some trucking company,” I said hastily, “that would undertake the job. After all, you can’t expect busy coal dealers to waste time handling coal they don’t sell. But there are any number of trucking companies that take on all sorts of jobs like this.”
“I’ve tried them,” said Jim. “I spent nearly all last night, with my neighbor, telephoning. I called big truckers and little truckers; I went all through the telephone book and the want ads. I tried little, foreign-sounding, one-truck outfits. I even telephoned some of the big social service organizations and asked them if they knew of any ex-soldiers in need of a one-day job.”
“How far is this guy’s house from you, the one with the new oil burner?” I inquired.
“Only four blocks,” cried Jim. “If I could. find some guy really looking for a job, he could do it with a wheelbarrow.”
“In about 50 trips,” I snorted. “Jim, it’s a nasty job, handling coal.”
“Aw, a truck could do it in one trip,” scorned Jim. “Two tons of coal? Just one trip.”
“Well, no matter how you manage it,” I admitted, “it won’t cost even half as much as two tons of coal. Whatever you pay, you’ll be in on the deal.”
“In Your Hands”
Jim studied me with a friendly and long look.
“Greg,” he said, “there is only one solution and it’s in your hands.”
“My hands!” I protested.
“Yes,” said Jim, tenderly. “You’ve got that little old open car…”
“It’s not so old,” I interrupted sharply, “that it can be used as a coal truck!”
“Aw, now, wait a minute,” soothed Jim. “I’ve thought it all out. I know you wouldn’t want to see me miss a lucky break like this. We’ve been partners too long for you to….”
“Jim,” I warned, “we’ve been partners all these years strictly because neither of us has tried to take advantage of the other.”
“Look,” said Jim, hitching his chair closer to me. “It is obvious you couldn’t carry bags of coal in a closed sedan.”
“You could,” I assured him. “And besides, your sedan is two years older than my touring.”
“Your little open job,” declared Jim, “is famous, and you admit it, for its carrying capacity.”
“True,” I admitted. “It has a record of six deer, three hounds, two hunters and their rifles and baggage.”
“There is nothing like a touring car,” announced Jim admiringly, “for carrying a load. It makes a joke of closed cars. Now, my idea was, I’ll supply the canvas tarpaulins…”
“I wouldn’t think of it, Jim,” I stated firmly.
“I’ll get two, or even three tarpaulins,” explained Jim, making little diagrams with his pencil, “that we can lines the car with. Then, I’ll borrow good, sound coal bags. All you’ve got to do is drive the car. We can make it in two or three trips….”
“Two tons of coal?” I shouted. “In my little touring? In two or three trips?”
“I’ll do all the carrying,” went on Jim hurriedly. “I’ll go down into that guy’s cellar, shovel the coal into the bags. Then I’ll give you a call on the telephone, see? You won’t have to do a thing but come and drive in his side drive. I’ll carry the bags up, very carefully. I won’t fill them too full. In fact, I’ll moisten them, so they won’t shed dust at all.”
“Nothing doing,” I said, getting up.
“Then,” pleaded Jim, “I’ll take the tarpaulins – I’ve got it all figured out, see? – and line your car with them. Line it completely, so that not so much as a single grain of coal dust can escape. Then I place the sacks of coal in, very carefully. On the floor.”
“It would hold about two,” I snorted. “It would take 20 trips.”
“I figure,” said Jim, “that we could do it in three or four trips. After all, what is two tons of coal?”
“Well, it seemed to be a lot,” I reminded him, “when you were feeling so lucky five minutes ago.”
“I mean,” said Jim, “it’s a lot in one sense. But it’s not much in another.”
“I don’t think it’s fair,” I announced, “to propose using my little car for a coal cart when you’ve got a car of your own.”
“But a closed car,” exclaimed Jimmie.
“You can line the inside of your closed car,” I insisted, “with tarpaulins. You can take the back seat out. You could get six bags of coal in it.”
“And smear all the upholstery!” cried Jim.
“How about mine?” I retorted.
“Yours is leather,” said Jim, “or imitation. If a little coal dust gets on that, I can wash it off. That’s the beauty of your car. It’s practical. It’s useful. It’s a real, sensible car.”
“Flattery won’t help,” I informed him.
“Aw,” begged Jim, “be a sport. All you’ve got to do is drive. Maybe three, maybe four short trips. I’ll do all the work, all the carrying.”
We Strike a Bargain
“Jim, I’ve been thinking,” I said. “What kind of coal is this two tons?”
“It’s blower coal1,” said Jim.
“That filthy dust!” I snorted.
“There’s four bags of cannel coal,” put in Jim.
“Ah, cannel coal?” I said. “For grate fires?”
“The guy with the new oil burner,” explained Jim, “is installing gas grates in his fireplaces.”
“I think,” I proposed, “we can make a little bargain here, Jim. If I am let in on this bit of luck, I might be interested in the trucking job.”
“The cannel coal, you mean?” said Jim, a little crestfallen.
“Precisely,” I said. “I can do with four bags of cannel coal. You wouldn’t want to hog all the luck, would you, Jim?”
“Not at all, not at all,” agreed Jim. “Of course you take the cannel coal for your trouble. I should have thought of it in the first place.”
And next day being Saturday, Jim took me in and introduced me to his neighbor. One of those harassed executive types. Just the kind who are sent all over the country by big, soulless corporations.
“Without a thought of me,” he explained, as he glumly outlined his plans for the winter. “That’s the heck of these big international organizations. They just shove you around.”
He came with us over to his friend’s, who was installing the oil burner. In fact, when we got there the oil burner men were already at work on the old coal furnace, taking out the grates, relining the fire-box with new tile and unpacking all the motors and gadgets that go with oil burners.
Jim’s neighbor had already explained to his friend about putting the coal in his bins for Jim’s use.
“I don’t care who gets it or where it goes,” said the new oil-burner owner, “so long as it gets the heck out of here. And soon. I spent half of last week trying to sell it. You’d think with the coal shortage and all, there would be somebody glad to buy two tons of coal,”
“Not even your neighbors?” I inquired. “Who could carry it next door or a couple of doors away?”
“My neighbors,” he replied drily, “are the kind who filled their bins to bursting last summer.”
On the Job
“Well, it’s a great break for us,” I assured him. “I’m getting the cannel coal in return for the use of my open car as a truck.”
“The cannel coal?” exclaimed Jim’s neighbor. “Oh, you’re taking that, are you?”
“We figured that was a fair break,” explained Jim. “I get the blower coal and he gets the four bags of cannel.”
“Good, good,” said Jim’s neighbor. “A real idea. Well, boys, I’d like to stay and help with the job, but I’ve got…”
“My dear man,” protested Jim, “don’t think of it. You’re doing enough, lending me your cellar, putting me in touch with a break of luck like this.”
And he and the oil-burner enthusiast went upstairs, leaving Jim and me face to face with the binful of blower.
Jim had borrowed three coal sacks from neighbors and had two old ones of his own that, in palmier days2, had delivered cannel coal to his house in tidy orders. You remember the days?
He also had two old brown dunnage bags, not very substantial now, with holes in them. But he had brought some newspaper to put inside to cover the holes.
With these for our containers, we proceeded to organize the job. True to his promise, Jim had obtained two big tarpaulins from among his wide circle of neighbors and acquaintances, and with these we lined my touring car to make a sort of large dustproof well or tank into which we could stow the coal sacks.
“We’ll move the cannel coal first,” I suggested, “and drop it off at my place.”
“Okay,” agreed Jim.
But when we looked for it, we found it in an outer bin, and at that very minute, one of the oil-burner workmen had placed a large, heavy crate full of motors, electric fuse boxes and other gadgets right on top of the cannel coal bin.
“I’ll have that open and distributed,” said the mechanic, “before you come for your second load. Leave it for now.”
So we proceeded with the blower coal, first filling all our five coal sacks and two dunnage bags, then carrying them up the cellar stairs to my waiting car.
Jim did the actual carrying while I came behind, supporting the bag with my shoulder. A bag of that soft, dusty blower coal is mighty heavy load. And more than that, it is a dirty load. We hadn’t carried two bags before we were already disappearing from view.
We got all seven bags into my car.
“At this rate,” I said, spitting coal, “It will take us about five or six trips.”
“We’ll see,” said Jim. “You can’t estimate a bin of coal by the eye.”
I drove the load carefully the four blocks to Jim’s side drive, and there we found Jim’s neighbor awaiting us to show us which cellar window to put the coal through.
“If you don’t mind, boys,” he said, “I’ve left the hose, so you can spray it as it goes in, to keep the dust down.”
“Okay,” said Jim. “Okay.”
Love’s Labor Lost
And as Jim carried each bag back, I would stand by, and as he lowered the bag and tilted it, I would turn the hose nozzle for the finest spray and let is sizzle in the cellar window.
It was a good idea, even though it moistened us and added to our murk.
On the second trip, I noticed the crate of motors was still on top of the cannel coal. “I’ll have it out of there by the next load,” said the mechanic.
On the third trip, the cannel coal was still unavailable.
“It will take only two more trips,” I explained to the mechanic.
“I’ll open the crate within 10 minutes,” he replied, his hands full of wrenches.
We made the whole job on the fifth trip, but it left no bags available, nor any room in my car for the cannel coal which was now available, the crate having been broken apart and the motors removed.
“I’ll come back for it,” I said thickly from behind a mask that now covered me like a fabric.
And as we arrived in the side drive and started carrying the last bags back to the bin window, a telegraph boy on a bicycle arrived and rang the neighbor’s bell.
He came out and greeted us heartily.
“This the last?” he inquired, as he opened the telegram.
“The last,” heaved Jim, hoisting a bag while I got the next one ready.
The neighbor, stood on his step staring at the telegram.
“Bad news?” I inquired.
“Awful!” he said. “This places most embarrassing position.”
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“How will I ever explain to Jimmie?” he said, looking at the wire helplessly.
I began to feel limp.
“The head office,” he read, “has changed program stop You will not be going California stop Acknowledge stop.”
“Not going,” I said hoarsely, “to California?”
He waved the telegram weakly.
Jim came from the back of the house with the empty sack.
“Jim,” said the neighbor brokenly. “Read this!”
Jim took the wire in his grimy hand and read it. Then read it again, his lips moving so as to take it in better.
“I’m so sorry, Jim,” said the neighbor.
“But…” said Jim… “well… but…”
“I’ll pay you,” said the neighbor eagerly, “I’ll pay you both for transferring the coal. I’ll pay you whatever you like, whatever is fair, whatever the usual charge is for…”
“How can you pay us?” I croaked. “Are we coal carriers?”
“Not at all,” said Jim, firmly. “It was just an unfortunate misunderstanding, a coincidence…”
“Do you mind,” I inquired bitterly, “if I take the cannel coal?”
“Certainly not, certainly not,” said the neighbor. “By all means. That will repay you for all your trouble. Your car…”
I looked at my poor little bow-legged car, still with its load of blower. What a filthy sight.
“Come on, Jim,” I said grimly.
And we hoisted the last five bags, with the neighbor now hastily helping, with his fingertips on the ears of the sacks, as we dumped them down his cellar window.
“I can’t tell you,” he kept repeating, “I can’t begin to tell you…”
“Skip it,” I assured him.
When the car was empty, I bade Jim good-afternoon and drove straight back for the cannel coal.
When I got down among the oil burner installation crew, the cannel coal bin was empty.
“Who took it?” I demanded smudgily.
“A guy took it,” said the head mechanic, “in three big ash cans.”
I went up and rapped on the kitchen door and the head of the house answered.
“The cannel coal?” I demanded.
“What of it?” he inquired.
“It’s gone,” I said.
“Who took it?” he inquired astonished.
“Don’t you know?” I grated.
“Me?” he said. “How do I know? I don’t care who gets it. So long as it…”
But I backed out, drove home, had a bath.
And even the bath water smelled fishy.
Editor’s Notes: For whatever reason, this story is longer than usual.
- I’m not sure about the difference better types of coal and how they would be used in old coal furnaces. Cannel coal is mentioned as more expensive as it burned with a bright flame, was easily lit, and left virtually no ash, presumably compared to blower coal. ↩︎
- “palmier days” means “back in the days of more prosperity”. ↩︎
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