The Tip

I slumped to the curb, pulled up my knees, and curled my arms around them.

"Hey, you. Baldhead."

I turned.

A tall man with wide shoulders was standing five feet behind, an assortment of luggage under his arms and in his hands. Next to him, leaning heavily against a lamp post, was an equally tall but thinner man with a carpet bag and cardboard suitcase at his feet.

I pointed at myself, frowning.

"No. The other five bald fellows in the gutter." The tall man huffed. "Yes, you. How much to carry his"—he tilted his head at the thin man—"bags to the train station?"

If only I could get a bath, I thought. Then those 'Help Wanted' signs would stop turning their backs on me.

I scrambled to my feet. "Ten cents?"

"Cheese and crust, Will," the thin man barked. "A tramp?"

I doffed my cap. "If you please, sir, I prefer 'rugged individualist'."

He wrinkled his nose.

"A dollar," the Will man said.

I gasped. "Done!"

The thin man's jaw dropped. "The dickens—?"

"We're getting there," Mr. Will said, "without killing you, Art."

"Criminy," the Art man growled. "Now I'm your kid brother?"

Mr. Will's face lengthened. "Fine. But you"—he glanced at me—"walk with us. When he can't do it, take 'em."

Mr. Art gave me a side-eye. "And when I can?"

"No tip." Mr. Will straightened, adding another inch to himself. "We're no charity."

I rubbed my unwashed hands.

The parade began: Mr. Will strode first, Mr. Art stumbled second, and I took up the trailing rear, vulture eyes staring at Mr. Art's hunched back.

After three minutes, Mr. Art began to weave precariously.

I jogged up and grabbed at the handles on his luggage. "My turn."

"Get away from me," he spluttered.

Mr. Will twisted around. "Art."

"I just need a breather," Mr. Art insisted.

I clicked my tongue. "You'll miss your train."

Mr. Will scoffed. "No. Leaves in three hours. Plenty of time." He lowered his bulky arms and set his loads carefully on the hard-pack sidewalk. "I'm never late."

Mr. Art descended onto the largest suitcase. "Best lead man I ever hired," he panted.

"Only lead man you ever hired," Mr. Will returned.

Mr. Art shrugged and bent over his knees, breathing raggedly.

I chewed at my lip as Mr. Art recovered. "Where are you gentlemen from?" I asked.

"Western Kansas, Hodgeman County. Near a town called Jetmore," Mr. Will said.

Kansas. My mind knocked on the door of the state government politics room I built in my brain while studying for academy entrance exams. Topeka answered.

"I once heard a joke about Kansas," I announced. "There was this old lady, see? And one day she says to her granddaughter: 'Sweetheart, soon I'll fly away to the land of milk and money.' And the little girl says, 'Dearest granny, when are you"—I paused for a beat—"moving to Jetmore?"

Mr. Art looked up, his brow creased and sweaty. "That's the stupidest joke I ever heard."

"Sorry." I put up my hands. "I didn't tell it right. I should have said she was going to ... the other place."

He stared at me.

"Topeka," I whispered ominously.

And grinned.

Mr. Art blinked. "If I let you carry my stuff, will there be more jokes?"

I brightened. "Yes, sir!"

He gripped both bag handles and stood up. "C'mon, Will. Let's get out of here."

Mr. Will chuckled.

I groused.

We were within sight of the station when Mr. Art stumbled. He fell into a sprawling, tangled mess on the ground. Both of his bags landed topsy-turvy amid puffs of dust.

Mr. Will whipped around, dropped his burdens, and was kneeling beside Mr. Art in a flash. "C'mon, Art. Enough."

Mr. Art coughed, choking on his splattered dignity. At first he resisted the stability of Mr. Will's arm, but with no other option, he gave in.

Once Mr. Art's quivering frame was perched on one of the overturned suitcases, he curled his arms around himself, slumped and heaving.

Mr. Will turned to me. "Pick 'em up," he ordered.

I looked at my grubby hands.

"No," I said. "He just tripped. He can do it."

Mr. Art wiped his mouth with a backhand.

Mr. Will studied me. "He'll retreat to fight another day," he whispered.

"But he's doing today," I mumbled. "Tomorrow is too far."

Mr. Art rubbed at his bloodshot eyes.

Mr. Will looked from me to Mr. Art, and then back to me. "All right," he said, rising from his knees. "Today."

We waited silently as Mr. Art stood, righted his bags, and grabbed the handles.

I bowed my head.

"Hey," Mr. Will said. "Here's your tip."

I looked up.

"Ness City is the seat a county north of Jetmore," he said. "You should have said 'Ness,' not 'Topeka.' Local jokes are best." He nodded. "Well, good luck with today."

I watched their backs leaving me behind.

Their eyes widened when I overtook them. "I'll see you off," I panted.

At the station, Mr. Will's priority was a bench. When it was found, Mr. Art collapsed onto it. The bags slipped from his white-knuckled grip and landed cleanly.

I crossed my arms. "About that tip of yours, Mr. Will?" I said. "I can memorize every county in the U.S." I pulled up one corner of my mouth. "But the county seats too? Even I can't do that."

He considered me. "So what you're saying is my tip only works in Jetmore."

I pulled up the other corner.

He crossed his arms too. "If you were in Jetmore, you'd pick up our jokes. The good ones. Not big city ones. That's what you're saying."

I dropped both corners.

He pulled a money clip from his pocket. "We'll need hands for wheat threshing soon. It's men's work, but men's pay." He held out three $10 bills. "Get a one-way ticket to Hutchison, Kansas, hub for all points west. We'll wait."

"And hurry up," Mr. Art sighed. "Don't make us miss your train."