Alvin Fernald's Incredible Buried Treasure Page 10

  “Yes, I recognized your voice right away. How are you?”

  “Quite fine, thank you. How are the Thingers?”

  “Oh, I haven’t made them in weeks, Professor. Perhaps I’ll do that this afternoon.”

  “I’ll take the first plane.” A pause. Then, “May I speak with Alvin, please?”

  “Of course. Just a minute.”

  “ALVIN! PROFESSOR O’HARRA IS ON THE PHONE!”

  “Hello, Professor. It’s me. Alvin.”

  “Good morning, Alvin. I haven’t spoken to you in some time.”

  “No, sir. I mean yes, sir.”

  “As you know, I’ve been quite busy with the Caleb thing.”

  “I know you have.”

  “The purpose of this phone call is to apprise you of what is happening.”

  “Professor, both the Pest—Daphne, I mean—and Shoie are up in my room. I’m sure they’d like to hear what you have to say. Can I put them on the extension phone?”

  “Of course.”

  “DAPHNE! YOU AND SHOIE PICK UP THE PHONE! IT’S THE PROFESSOR!”

  “Hi, Professor. It’s Daphne, and Shoie is right here with me.”

  “I’m glad I have all three of you on the line. Now listen carefully. I have lots to tell you. After I got Caleb’s box safely in the hands of the Library of Congress, I made an appointment with the governor of the state of Indiana, and with the speaker of the Indiana legislature. I took along a copy of Caleb’s journal, and read it to them. They were stunned that Mr. Lincoln’s own copy of the Gettysburg Address had been found in their state.

  “After our meeting, the governor spoke to his state legislature, telling the assembled representatives all about Caleb. The legislature passed a law making Caleb a ‘true son of Indiana,’ and authorizing an expenditure of up to $75,000 to erect a memorial in his honor.”

  Alvin’s voice: “Wow!”

  Shoie’s voice: “Cool, man! Cool!”

  Daphne’s voice: “All raaaaaat!”

  “The finest sculptor in the United States, a woman named Sarah Short, was commissioned several months ago to make a sculpture of Caleb, to be mounted at a suitable place in the Indiana section of Gettysburg National Cemetery. She has already produced a miniature, from which she will sculpt the full-size monument. I’ve seen the miniature. It is fantastic, kids. She even got his face and those big eyes exactly right, thanks to that photograph of him with Lincoln. There’s a Union battle cap tipped to one side of his head. And he’s scrooching along on his crutch and one leg with a nobbly knee. I tell you, it’s sensational.”

  Alvin: “Sounds great!”

  “Listen, kids. The White House saw all the publicity, and now the president himself is getting into the act. They’re arranging a rededication of the Gettysburg Cemetery for next October 17. At that time they’ll dedicate the statue, and Caleb’s copy of the Gettysburg Address, which will be installed inside a special viewing box at cemetery headquarters.”

  “They want all three of you kids to be part of the ceremony. The president of the United States will be there to speak. They want you kids to respond. You can say anything you wish. Will you be there?”

  Alvin: “Wow! The president. I wouldn’t miss it!”

  Shoie: “They won’t let us off school.”

  Daphne: “What’ll I wear?”

  Chapter 23

  September 15:

  Ring. Ring.

  “Hello.”

  “I’d like to speak with Mr. Fernald, please. Mr. Alvin Fernald.”

  “I am. You are.”

  “I are what?”

  “You are speaking with Alvin Fernald. I’m him.”

  “Well, let me introduce myself, Mr. Fernald. My name is Waldo Weems, and I’m your new public relations executive.”

  “Public what executive?”

  “Public relations executive.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I work to get you publicity. Good publicity.”

  Pause. Then, “I already get more publicity than I want. Most of it bad. What did you say your name is?”

  “Waldo Weems.”

  “Funny name. But anyway, I can’t hire you. I only have $7.20 in the bank.”

  “Oh, the signing fee is already taken care of, sir. As well as a three-month salary.”

  “What did you say your name is?”

  “Waldo Weems.”

  “Well, Waldo, you’re making me extremely nervous. Who’d be willing to pay your signing fee, and three-months salary, for you to work for me when I don’t need you?”

  “The governor.”

  “What governor?”

  “The governor of your state. Indiana.”

  “Why would the governor of my state—Indiana—do that?”

  “Because he wants you to attend the dedication of the statue of Caleb Getme, and for political reasons he’s striving for the very best of publicity from that event. Now do you understand?”

  “Sort of. Waldo? I can call you Waldo, can’t I?”

  “Certainly, Alvin.”

  “What does the Governor expect me to do in return?”

  “He expects you to attend the dedication ceremony for the statue, and the rededication ceremony of the Gettysburg National Cemetery, because you kids found Lincoln’s original copy of the Gettysburg Address. He also expects you, as prominent citizens of Indiana, to participate in any opportunities that will validly publicize these events. And I have found such an opportunity. Alvin, it’s a smasheroo!”

  “Waldo, it seems to me that it will cost us lots of money to participate in those events. That $7.20 is look ing mighty puny right now.”

  “Not to worry, Alvin. Not to worry. The Indiana State Legislature—your state legislature—has passed a bill authorizing expenses for you, your sister, your friend Wilfred Shoemaker, and your parents, such expenses not to exceed $15,000. Such expenses may include transportation, lodging, meals, clothing and incidentals.”

  “Wow! Did I hear you right? We can spend $15,000?”

  “Right as rain, Alvin.”

  “Waldo, can I buy a new motor for my robot?”

  “Probably not, Alvin. But you can ask the Indiana legislature.”

  Pause. “Waldo, you mentioned a smasheroo of a publicity event. Explain, please.”

  “I’ve already arranged for you three kids to be interviewed on the AM America show. What do you think of that?”

  “I dunno what to think of that. I never heard of the AM America show.”

  “I can’t believe my ears! That’s like saying you never saw fireworks on the Fourth of July. It’s the biggest TV show ever produced by any network in the morning hours. The star of the show is Judy Melbourne, who makes more money than any master of ceremonies has ever made in the history of TV. She’s known as the ‘Interrogator with Questions as Sharp as a Razor.’ And she wants you three kids on her program.”

  “What do we have to do?

  “Just answer her questions.”

  “When’s the show?”

  “October 15. The big event in Gettysburg is on the 17th. The TV show is in Philadelphia, at the network studio there. There will be a live audience to cheer you on. I figure all of you can fly from Indianapolis to Philadelphia on the 14th, and stay two nights. I’ll get you rooms in a nice hotel. You’ll be fresh for the show the next morning. Then, after the show, I’ll have a chauffeured limousine drive you back to the hotel. The next day we’ll all be off to Gettysburg.”

  “Wow! You mean a driver with a uniform and a cap and all?”

  “Yes, Alvin. The works.”

  “Waldo, what do I do next? You and I are on the same frequency.”

  “Just sit tight. I’ll make arrangements for your air tickets, your hotel rooms, and ground transportation—including the uniform and cap. I’ll even get the cap for you as a gift.”

  “Waldo, I kind of like having my own public relations executive.”

  “‘Waldo Weems, even better than he seems.’ My motto, Alvin.”<
br />
  “‘Alvin Fernald, better with hair than bald.’ My motto, Waldo.”

  Chapter 24

  As they were walking through the big Philadelphia air terminal, Alvin heard an announcement over the speaker system. “Mr. Alvin Fernald, please contact the information desk. We have a message for you.” Then the announcement was repeated. Alvin, swelling with importance, wished the announcement would be repeated forever.

  The information desk informed him that a Mr. Waldo Weems would meet him at baggage claim, and that his transportation was waiting outside that door of the terminal.

  “Good to have your own public relations executive in situations such as this,” said Alvin to the desk clerk, who looked up in surprise. Alvin walked away as though he was in charge of the world.

  Near the baggage claim stood a man holding a hand lettered sign, “Alvin Fernald.” Alvin went over to him and said, “I’m Alvin Fernald. Are you Waldo Weems?”

  The man stuffed the sign into a nearby trash can, and stuck out his hand. “At your service.” He was a tall young man in a silver-gray suit and a snap-brim hat. He was rather distinguished looking. But his hands were his distinctive element. They were constantly in motion to illustrate what his mouth was saying. “Your car awaits,” he said, revolving his body so he could make a huge pointing gesture toward the door.

  Waldo was introduced to Alvin’s folks and to others in the party. Baggage was claimed. Then everyone followed Waldo out to the pick-up area. He directed them to a double-length black limousine. A young man in a chauffeur’s uniform was standing by the rear access door. Although he appeared to be about twenty years old, he was extremely short, not much taller than Alvin. As the party approached he swept off his cap and bowed in a single well-rehearsed motion.

  Significantly, Waldo introduced Alvin to the chauffeur before any of the others. “Bixby, this is Mr. Alvin Fernald, your client.” Alvin shook hands, and the other members of the party were introduced. Alvin stood there, wondering if Bixby was the driver’s true name. It fit almost too well.

  “This is Bixby, my chauffeur.”

  There was more than enough room for all seven of them, including Waldo, in the limousine. A glass partition separated them from Bixby. As they wound their way out of the terminal, Alvin glanced through the glass, and instantly grabbed for the arms of his seat. No one was there, no one was driving the car! Then, off to the left, and at the bottom of the pane of glass, he saw the top of a uniform cap. Bixby was so short the passengers could scarcely locate him.

  The limousine took them to an opulent downtown hotel. Before they checked in, Waldo said with suitable enormous gestures, “Bixby will be here, with the limousine, in case you want to see some of the sights of Philadelphia this afternoon. Just ask for him by name at the desk. Tomorrow will be a big day (a gesture) so I urge you to get plenty of sleep tonight (another, bigger gesture). I’ll meet you here in the lobby tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp. We’ll go straight from here to the network TV studio. We’ll return to the hotel after the show, and the next day we’ll push on to Gettysburg.”

  With a big wave of both arms, Waldo bade them goodbye.

  Alvin was sorry to see him go. He’d have to get along without his own public relations executive for the next several hours.

  Chapter 25

  The next morning, on their way to the studio, Waldo said to Mrs. Fernald, “Surely, my good lady, you’ve seen Judy Melbourne’s AM America TV show.” It was a declaration, not a question.

  She said, “I’m afraid not. I’m too busy in the morning to watch TV. But I’ll be fascinated to see today’s installment.”

  The adults—the Fernald parents, Professor O’Harra, the silvery Waldo Weems—were all seated in the spacious back section of the vast limousine, with the kids scrambling for the fold-down seats in the front section. The two sections were tied together by an intercommunication system, which also had a speaker up front for the virtually invisible Bixby in the driver’s seat.

  “What’s the show like?” asked Daphne.

  “Do they get in big arguments, like they do on so many other TV shows today?” asked Sergeant Fernald.

  “How about sports?” said Shoie. “Anything on sports?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Waldo. “No sports. And there’s no arguing. Judy is very firm about that. She takes one idea and, with her questions, explores it very thoroughly.” He made a big, very encompassing gesture with his hands. “So thoroughly that, when the program is over, any viewer feels that he or she knows all there is to know about that subject.” He held up a finger. “Let me put this in the strongest words I can: Don’t get in an argument between yourselves, or between you and Judy. She is inflammatory on that subject. She demands a nice, clean, objective show.”

  “So what do we talk about,” asked Shoie. “The weather forecast in Akron, or the price of a can of splitpea soup?”

  “Nothing like that. She’ll be asking you all kinds of probing questions about Caleb’s journal, and how you solved the puzzle to find Lincoln’s copy of the Gettysburg Address. Answer her questions in as much detail as you want, but don’t slide off the subject.” He made a swooping motion with one hand.

  About that time Shoie, bored with the discussion, pulled his harmonica from his pants pocket, and began playing. Almost instantly, Professor O’Harra’s clear tenor joined in:

  My wild Irish rose, the sweetest flower that grows,

  You can search everywhere, but none can compare,

  With the bloom from my wild Irish rose.

  When the last line bellowed forth, Bixby brought them to a screaming stop in front of the network studio. Professor O’Harra, who had intended to open the door for everyone else, missed his timing. The door flew open all right, but he flew with it, slamming into the stomach of the rather stout doorman who stood outside the studio.

  “OOOOOOOOFFFF!”

  It was difficult to tell whether it was Professor O’Harra, or the doorman who said it. Or, indeed, Bixby, who came flying onto the scene to offer his apology.

  After casting an evil eye on Professor O’Harra, the doorman led the group inside the theater. Single file they marched down the center aisle, then up a short flight of stairs to the stage. There awaited Judy Melbourne, TV’s greatest star. She was a commanding presence.

  Judy was seated at a desk so big it would intimidate anyone who stood in front of it. Her chair rolled along a platform higher than the rest of the stage, so she would always appear taller than her guests.

  On the left side of the stage was a large sofa, crimson in color and trimmed in gold. On the right side of the stage were two armchairs in similar colors.

  The kids suddenly discovered that all the adults in their party, with the exception of the professor, had been stopped and seated in the audience. The kids had no adult backup.

  Judy raised a finger and said imperiously, “You, there. You two boys. You will take seats on the sofa. And the girl and the man with the cane will occupy the two armchairs.” It sounded like an imperial edict, thought Alvin, as he sat down on the sofa.

  The stage curtain had been closed behind them, so now they could no longer see the audience. I’ve been cut off from my parents, thought Daphne.

  Judy’s voice came ringing across the stage. “In exactly...uh... three minutes the curtain will be pulled, and today’s edition of AM America—America’s most popular TV show—will begin. You people will be expected to remain quiet until I address a question to you, at which time you will immediately respond in full. Answer the question, but do not under any circumstances change the subject. Have I made myself clear?”

  They nodded.

  Judy turned her attention to one of the cameramen. “You, Judd Harrison, have screwed up the past three shows. I will not tolerate this. You will keep your camera on my face unless I indicate otherwise, or you’ll find yourself looking for another show. Am I clear, Mr. Harrison?”

  The cameraman’s face was bright red as he nodded. Alvin
felt there was no need to embarrass him so openly.

  Suddenly they all heard a low rumble. “Judy, Judy, Judy, Judy.”

  It was the signature of the AM America show. Under direction of a cheerleader, the audience started repeating her name slowly, and in a low tone, gradually building in volume and speed until they were shouting, “JUDY, JUDY, JUDY!” At the peak of the noise the stage curtains suddenly were withdrawn to reveal Judy waving both arms enthusiastically at the audience.

  Daphne spotted her mother and father in seats a few rows from the stage. She waved enthusiastically until she saw Judy frowning at her.

  Judy talked for a minute or two about the “wonder fully bright” children she had for the program today, the same “wonderfully bright” children who had solved Caleb’s puzzle and unearthed the Gettysburg Address. She pointed out that the children would be honored at a dedicatory ceremony the following day.

  Then, looking straight at Shoie, who in turn was looking overhead at one of the spotlights, she said, “Let’s start with you, ah (referring to a sheet of paper) Winifred Shoemaker. What are you thinking of just now?”

  “My name isn’t Winifred. That’s a girl’s name. Now all the guys at school will start calling me Winifred. My name’s Wilfred. WILFRED! You got that, Cooty, or whatever your name is?”

  “Oh, sorry Wilfred. But I ask you again. What were you thinking of just a moment ago. Mr. Lincoln? The Gettysburg Address? You can give me a frank answer, Wilfred.”

  “I was thinking of the Infield Fly Rule in baseball.”

  “The what?”

  “The Infield Fly Rule.”

  “For heaven’s sake, what’s that? Does it cover insects around first base?”

  “Judy, it’s like this. Suppose I’m at bat with the bases loaded. Suppose I pop up a little fly that’s going to land in the infield. Suppose the first baseman flubs it on purpose—fails to catch it—then picks it up and throws to second base. The second baseman whips around and throws to first, for a double play. This was possible only because the first baseman flubbed the ball on purpose.”

  “The Infield Fly Rule, huh?”