Read Online Front Yard by Norman Draper - Free Book Online

a gale.
    â€œWell, what’s the matter, Mrs. Tuertle? Got the dt’s or something? Ha-ha. Let’s get a move on. What’s at stake here is nothing less than the right of a couple of small entrepreneurs to prosper in a free capitalist society.”
    Mrs. Tuertle made a noise akin to a French horn croaking a misplayed note. Then, she whispered something.
    â€œPlease speak up, Mrs. Tuertle,” said Nimwell. “Just like Mr. Scroggit said, there’s no time to lose.”
    â€œCan’t,” said Mrs. Tuertle.
    â€œCan’t?” barked Artis. “What do you mean, can’t? Don’t be afraid, Mrs. Tuertle; all we can do is fire you. Ha-ha.”
    â€œMr. Donaldson no longer works for us.”
    â€œWhat! And why not?”
    â€œWe haven’t paid him,” Mrs. Tuertle gurgled, her voice now broken by sobs. “Haven’t paid him in two years. We’ve already heard from a collection agency. They’re taking action. I’ve got their letter here somewhere.”
    â€œThis is monstrous!” said Artis.
    â€œMonstrous!” echoed Nimwell. “A monstrosity!”
    â€œAnd how long have we known about this, Mrs. Tuertle?”
    Mrs. Tuertle cringed and seemed to transform in her chair and before their eyes into a very old fetus.
    â€œI just found out. You just hired me.”
    â€œEh?”
    â€œYou had no accountant or bookkeeper for years,” she whimpered. “Until you hired my predecessor, whom you terminated, nobody knew. You were supposed to know, as the owners.”
    The ire of the Scroggit brothers, focused up to this point on bloated socialist bureaucracies, now redirected itself onto this miserable lump of humanity, who had been toiling away for them for a mere three weeks, trying desperately to assemble documents, letters, and computer e-mails that had not been filed or dealt with since Mrs. Monck left.
    â€œGet out!” barked Artis. “Get out now. You’ll get no severance or reference from us, Mrs. Tuertle. We’re firing you on the spot for incompetence, and maybe even dishonesty. Someone will have to check your books. Have you embezzled anything from us? Oh, stop your blubbering.”
    â€œPlease, Mr. Scroggit, please . . . Please . . . Need the work. My husband, Frank. He can’t work. Sick. Please.”
    â€œI tell you what, Mrs. Tuertle, you can keep that box of Kleenex over there, but that’s it. Now, out you go. You don’t have anything to worry about. Our socialist state specializes in cases like yours. Once you and your husband go on welfare, you’ll probably be making twice what we’re making by not working at all. Ha-ha!”
    Nimwell nodded and pursed his lips in righteous indignation. With that, the Scroggit brothers stalked out of the office and into their retail showroom.
    The showroom of Fightin’ Yankee Antiques was a history nut’s dream come true. Civil War muskets and rifles, both real and replicas, lined the walls. There were cavalry sabers, artillery sponges, and spiral-coiled worms, flagstaffs, pennant staffs, and moth-eaten uniforms colored blue, gray, and butternut. The big showpieces, covering half of the north wall, were bullet-ripped American and regimental flags captured by the Rebs at the Battle of Gaines’ Mill.
    In the center of the floor sat a replica Napoleon six-pounder, complete with sponging bucket and attached sight. The replica had been cast in 1934 to exact historical specifications and had been in the hands of rich collectors for years until the Scroggits bought it at an estate sale in 1981 for $12,000. It and the flags were for sale only if the price was right.
    The glass display cases housed minie bullets dug up from battlefields, bayonets, uniform blouse buttons, canteens, real letters from the battlefield, medals, eating utensils (which were usually bent), decks of playing cards, surgeons’ saws and scalpels, haversacks, and gum