Fortune favors the bold. And when it doesn't? That's when Dad has to step in.

Tim couldn't handle it. All afternoon he'd watched Jake sit at his Root Beer stand waiting for customers who never came. Seeing the price on the homemade sign drop to fifty cents, twenty-five cents, a nickel... it was too much.

Something had to be done. Tim just hoped his cowboy outfit from Halloween was still where he thought it was.

"Well, howdy there, young stranger!" Tim called out as he rounded the corner and headed down the sidewalk toward Jake's stand, holding his absurdly large belt buckle firmly, with both hands, and kicking up the ill-fitting boots. He made a mental note to call the neighbors and explain why he'd jumped their fences to get to the other end of the street. He also hoped none of them had called the police.

Jake looked up and giggled for the first time since he opened up shop. "Hey, Dad."

Tim twitched the fake mustache on his lip from side to side as he shook his head. "Dad? Ain't no fella named Dad around here, I reckon." He stuck out his right hand and tipped his ten-gallon hat with the other. "Why, I'm Scooter T. Murphy. Please to meet you. Say, this is quite an operation you've got here with your cooler full of ice, cups, and four unopened quart bottles of root beer."

Jake's face fell a little as he shook his father's hand. "I guess."

"You guess? There ain't no guessin' about it. See, I'm what you'd call a sodie pop magnate. Now don't ask me what a magnate is, 'cause I ain't sure. As far as I'm concerned it's just a fancy way of saying I'm insanely rich AND I like sodie pop. So what can you tell me about this root beer you're peddlin', partner?"

"I don't know," Jake shrugged. "I made it myself from a Mr. Root Beer Homemade Root Beer Kit. Well, you... I mean, my DAD helped me."

"A father and son operation, you say? That's the best kind, if you ask me. Was it hard to do?"

"Nope," Jake said. "Everything we needed was right in the box. It only took three days to finish, put in the reusable bottles, and everything. Nobody seems to want any, though." He looked off across the street and rested his chin in his hands. "Probably should've gone with lemonade."

"LEMONADE?" Tim staggered back. "Nonsense. You're just being original, that's all, bucking the trend, thinking outside the box and all that. I like a guy with new ideas! Now how's about I give you this shiny nickel and you give me a glass of that stuff?"

Jake jumped into action and prepared a cup for Tim. Tim took a sip, swallowed, and then shouted, "WOO-WEE! Now that's something. Tell you what, young man, I'd like to buy out your root beer stand. How's ten, no, twenty dollars sound?"

"Twenty dollars?!"

"Sure! That kit comes with refills, doesn't it? I reckon we can make plenty of root beer between the two of us. Of course, I'll keep you on as CEO, you understand, at least for a while. I'd offer you stock, too, if I had any. I've got ice cream, though. Should make a couple of pretty darn good floats, I reckon. Why don't you and me pack up this stand and talk about the future of the company over some?"

Jake got up and wrapped his arms around Scooter T. Murphy's legs. "That would be awesome, Dad."

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