Free A Dismal Thing To Do by Charlotte MacLeod Page A

from. I’ve forgotten, if I ever knew. It ain’t in too bad shape, far’s I can see. I could slap on a coat o’ fresh paint.”
    “If you do, I’ll run you in for disturbing the peace. The idea, I believe, is either to preserve them in a suitably battered condition or else to strip them down and then restore them, whatever that may mean. If you’d just brush off the cobwebs and let me know what you think it’s worth?”
    “Hell’s flames, how do I know what it’s worth? You better take a look for yourself before you decide whether the thing’s even worth luggin’ home.”
    Fred set aside the chipped graniteware basin that had been sitting in the top since God knew when. Together, the two upholders of law and order went over the washstand. Barring a few grease stains and too many coats of the wrong color paint, each one knocked off in spots to show the color underneath, they pronounced it sound and fit to travel. This was definitely a strip-and-restore job, and that was fine with Madoc. It would give Janet something to work off her surplus energy on, once she got some back.
    “Want to take it with you now?” Fred asked. “Or shall I run it up in the truck later?”
    “Why don’t you take it, if you don’t mind? Janet will be glad of a chance to say hello. But about the money—”
    Fred gave Madoc a sly grin. “Tell you what. You get Perce Bergeron’s truck and Jase Bain’s lumber back for me, and we’ll call it square.”
    “But suppose they’re beyond getting? Would you settle for the thieves who took them?”
    “I’d settle for anything that will get Perce an’ Jase off my back.”
    “In that case, it’s a deal. Now Fred, can you describe this truck of Bergeron’s in detail?”
    “I can do a little better’n that. Why don’t you take yourself a run out to Bergeron’s and ask Perce for a picture of it? He must have hundreds of ’em. Old Elzire, Perce’s father, was a real sharp feller. He believed it paid to advertise. He’d have postcards printed up with a picture of the truck an’ the bull an’ some cute sayin’. ‘Why wait till the cows come home? We’ll throw the bull your way,’ that was one of ‘em. ‘Service with a smile,’ that was another.”
    “Catchy,” said Madoc.
    “Ayup. Elzire was a smart one, all right. It was a good idea, you know, cartin’ the bull around to the cows instead o’ makin’ the farmer drive ’em to stud. That truck put Perce’s food on the table an’ clothes on his back, an’ sent him to school, an’ he darn well knows it, eh? Hell, he’d rather ’o lost his mother-in-law. A damn sight rather, though you needn’t tell ’er I said so. I used to have a few of Elzire’s postcards kickin’ around myself, but don’t ask me what became of ’em. Anyway, I expect likely you’d as soon go get Perce’s story for yourself. Straight from the bull’s mouth, as you might say.”
    Chuckling at his own wit, Fred told Madoc how to find Bergeron and said he guessed maybe he’d better get back to lining Jim Allenby’s brakes. However, Madoc was not quite ready to let him go.
    “By the way, would you happen to know a chap from somewhere around these parts named either Grouse or McLumber who went into the military quite some years ago and did pretty well for himself? He’d be around your age, give or take a few years, tall and sturdily built, probably blond when he was younger but grayhaired now, roundish face, florid complexion, and bright blue eyes that look as if you could take them out and play marbles with them.”
    “Cripes yes, that’d be Charlie Grouse. I went to school with him. Eyeball Grouse, we used to call him. General Grouse nowadays, from what his relatives try to make you believe, but I don’t think Eyeball’s ever got quite that far. Colonel or major, I forget which. They say he’s turned into a kind of a stuffed shirt, but what the hell, he’s entitled, is the way I look at it. Yep, you got to hand it to ol’ Eyeball,