The boy's father frowned.
“Who?”
“People who have been searching.”
The farmer looked toward the boy.
“And they'll tell people.”
The boy's mother appeared at the shed door carrying coffee.
“How many people?”
The old farmer smiled.
“Enough that your kitchen phone may become annoying.”
They all laughed.
Nobody understood yet how accurate that prediction was.
Saturday morning, one week after the auction, the phone rang at 7:12.
The boy was feeding calves.
His mother answered.
A man from Iowa.
Looking for 18-R plates.
She called toward the back door.
The boy came running.
“How many?”
The man asked.
The boy checked his notebook.
“Seventeen.”
“What condition?”
“Good enough to read numbers.”
“Cell wear?”
“I need to measure.”
The man paused.
“You're the boy?”
“What boy?”
“The auction boy.”
News had traveled.
The boy looked toward his mother.
“Yes.”
The man laughed.
“Heard you bought old dealer inventory.”
“Maybe.”
“You got a 20-DF?”
The boy flipped pages.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Twelve.”
The caller whistled.
“Don't sell those cheap.”
The boy stared.
“How much?”
The man laughed.
“You really ask buyers that?”
“Yes.”
“You'll learn.”
He ordered four 18-R plates for eighty dollars plus shipping.
The boy had never shipped anything commercially.
The caller told him to put cardboard between plates.
Wrap edges.
Use a strong box.
Write his address carefully.
“Send collect?”
The boy asked.
“No.”
The man paused.
Then:
“I'll mail you a check today.”
“You don't know me.”
“I know the farmer who gave me your number.”
Trust moved through rural networks faster than formal systems.
The boy wrote the order on an index card.
His first mail-order customer.
At 8:03, the phone rang again.
Illinois.
Looking for 24-B.
At 8:41.
Minnesota.
A machinery restoration shop.
At 9:10.
Indiana.
At 9:26.
The same phone rang while the boy was already speaking to another buyer.
No call waiting.
His mother heard the second caller get a busy signal through the extension.
At 9:50, the phone rang again.
His little sister answered.
“Seed plate company.”
The entire kitchen stopped.
The boy stared at her.
His mother covered her mouth to hide laughter.
His father said:
“We are not a seed plate company.”
The girl whispered into the receiver:
“Dad says we're not a seed plate company.”
The caller laughed so loudly they heard it across the kitchen.
He was from Nebraska.
By noon, they had sixteen orders.