Samuel and Cleo didn’t waste any time. They jumped into their wagon. “What’s wrong with those two?” Cleo said.
It all began after Samuel bought Jensen’s unused wood from his moving staircase project. “I can use the extra wood to build coffins.”
Cleo hesitated, not sure that it was wise move. In the end, she agreed with her husband, but it didn’t turn out good. Jensen resented Samuel for being able to help him.
Once Samuel got into the candlestick-making business, things got worse.
“He’s supposed to make coffins, not candles. Or is it because he thinks they both start with the letter C? Does that mean I should train jaguars or sell jewelry because I own Jensen’s Joint? Of course not! Just who does Samuel what’s-his-name think he is?”
Samuel tried to approach Jensen kindly—showed him a page from his A-Penny-For-Your-Thoughts meditation journal. A problem of our time is the problem of ambition. But as you can guess, this did absolutely no good. Samuel stayed away from Jensen’s Joint where the soup was thin and the coffee weak.
“I’ve had enough,” he said, which was about the time when Ronstone showed up, and then bam! They had a Grand Opening. Now the two men traveled around Oakside throwing nets over people and wanting to kidnap children. And who was this Ronstone? A guy from the city of giant buildings and endless towers who appeared one day in a bowler hat? Word had it that he was a former board member of the Pool of Knowledge, at least that’s what people in the know said, but you can’t always believe everything you hear.
“Hurry up, Sammy,” said Cleo. “I have to use to bathroom. Pull over and wait a sec.” The horses were happy to stop, neighed softly, and deposited soft plops along the roadside that looked like overripe figs. “Be right back,” Cleo said and high-tailed it into the woods.