CHAPTER VII

THE THOUSAND DOLLAR BANKBILL

The little town of Riverside had been buzzing with excitement ever since the news had flashed over the wires that the Giants had won the championship of the National League. On a miniature scale, it was as much stirred up as New York itself had been at the glorious victory.

For was not Joe Matson, who had twirled that last thrilling game, a son of Riverside? Had he not grown up among the friends and neighbors who took such pride and interest in his career? Had he not, as Sol Cramer, the village oracle and the owner of the hotel, declared, “put Riverside on the map?”

There had been a big crowd at the telegraph office in the little town on the day that the final game had been played, and cheer after cheer had gone up as each inning showed that Joe was holding the Chicagos down. And when in that fateful ninth his home run had “sewed up” the victory, the enthusiasm had broken all bounds.

An impromptu procession had been formed, the village band had been pressed into service, the stores had been cleared out of all the fireworks left over after the Fourth of July, and practically the whole population of the town had gathered on the street in front of the Matson house where they held a hilarious celebration.

The quiet little family found itself suddenly in the limelight, and were almost as much embarrassed as they were delighted by the glory that Joe’s achievement had brought to them.

The crowd dispersed at a late hour, promising that this was not a circumstance to what would happen when Joe himself should come home after the end of the World Series.

Had any one suggested that possibly the Giants would lose out in that Series, he would have stood a good chance of being mobbed. To that crowd of shouting enthusiasts, the games were already stowed in the New York bat bag. How could they lose when Joe Matson was on their team?

In the Matson household joy reigned supreme. Joe had always been their pride and idol. He had been a good son and brother, and his weekly letters home had kept them in touch with every step of his career. They had followed with breathless interest his upward march in his profession during this year with the Giants, but had hardly dared to hope that his season would wind up in such a blaze of glory.

Now they were happy beyond all words. They fairly devoured the papers that for the next day or two were full of Joe’s exploits. They could not stir out of the house without being overwhelmed with congratulations and questions. Clara, Joe’s sister, a pretty, winsome girl, declared laughingly that there could hardly have been more fuss made if Joe had been elected President of the United States.

“I’m sure he’d make a very good one if he had,” said Mrs. Matson, complacently, as she bit off a thread of her sewing.

“You dear, conceited Momsey,” said Clara, kissing her.

Mr. Matson smiled over his pipe. He was a quiet, undemonstrative man, but in his heart he was intensely proud of this stalwart son of his.

“How I wish we could have seen that game!” remarked Clara, wistfully. “Just think, Momsey, of sitting in a box at the Polo Grounds and seeing that enormous crowd go crazy over Joe, _our_ Joe.”

“I’m afraid my heart would almost break with pride and happiness,” replied her mother, taking off her glasses and wiping her eyes.

“Of course it’s great, reading all about it in the papers and seeing the pictures,” continued Clara, “but that isn’t like actually being there and hearing the shouts and all that. But I’m a very wicked girl to want anything more than I’ve got,” she went on brightly. “Now I’m going to run down to the post-office. The mail must be in by this time and I shouldn’t wonder if I’d find a letter from Joe.”

She put on her hat and left the house. Mrs. Matson looked inquiringly at her husband.

“You heard what Clara said, dear,” she observed. “I don’t suppose there’s any way in the world we could manage it, is there?”

“I’m afraid not,” returned Mr. Matson. “I’ve had to spend more money than I expected in perfecting that invention of mine. But there’s nothing in the world that I would like more than to see Joe pitch, if it were only a single game.”

Clara soon reached the little post-office and asked for the Matson mail. There were several letters in their box, but none from Joe.

She was much disappointed, as in Joe’s last telegram he had told her that a letter was on the way and to look out for it.

She had turned away and was going out of the office, when the postmaster called her back.

“Just wait a minute,” he said. “I see I’ve got something for you here in the registered mail.”

He handed her a letter which Clara joyfully saw was addressed in Joe’s handwriting.

“It’s directed to your mother,” the postmaster went on, “but of course it will be all right if you sign for it.”

Clara eagerly signed the official receipt and hurried home with her precious letter.

“Did you get one from Joe?” asked her mother, eagerly.

“There wasn’t anything from him in the box,” said Clara, trying to look glum. Then as she saw her mother’s face fall, she added gaily: “But here’s one that the postmaster handed me. It came in the registered mail.”

She handed it over to her mother, who took it eagerly.

“Hurry up and open it, Momsey!” cried Clara, fairly dancing with eagerness. “I’m just dying to know what Joe has to say.”

Mr. Matson laid aside his pipe and came over to his wife. She tore open the letter with fingers that trembled.

Something crisp and yellow fluttered out and fell on the table. Clara’s nimble fingers swooped down upon it.

“Why, it’s a bankbill!” she exclaimed as she unfolded it. “A ten dollar bill it looks like. No,” as her eyes grew larger, “it’s more than that. It’s a hundred--Why, why,” she stammered, “it’s _a thousand dollar bill_!”

“Goodness sakes!” exclaimed her mother. “It can’t be. There aren’t any bills as big as that.”

Mr. Matson took it and scrutinized it closely.

“That’s what it is,” he pronounced in a voice that trembled a little. “It’s a thousand dollar bill.”

The members of the little family stared at each other. None of them had ever seen a bill like that before. They could hardly believe their eyes. They thought that they were dreaming.

Mrs. Matson began to cry.

“That blessed, blessed boy!” she sobbed. “That blessed, darling boy!”

Clara’s eyes, too, were full of tears, and Mr. Matson blew his nose with astonishing vigor.

But they were happy tears that did not scald or sting, and in a few minutes they had recovered their equanimity to some degree.

“What on earth can it all mean?” asked Mrs. Matson, as she put on her glasses again.

“Let’s read the letter and find out,” urged Clara.

“You read it, Clara,” said her mother. “I’m such a big baby to-day that I couldn’t get through with it.”

Clara obeyed.

The letter was not very long, for Joe had had to dash it off hurriedly, but they read a good deal more between the lines than was written.

“Dearest Momsey,” the communication ran, “I am writing this letter in a rush, as I’m fearfully busy just now, getting ready for the World Series. Of course, you’ve read by this time all about the last game that won us the pennant. I had good luck and the boys supported me well so that I pulled through all right.

“Now don’t think, Momsey, when you see the enclosed bill that I’ve been cracking a bank or making counterfeit money. I send the money in a single bill so that it won’t make the registered letter too bulky. Dad can get it changed into small bills at the bank.

“You remember the clause in my contract by which I was to get a thousand dollars extra if I won twenty games during the season? Well, that last game just made the twentieth, and the club handed the money over in a hurry. And in just as much of a hurry I’m handing it over to the dearest mother any fellow ever had.

“Now, Momsey, I want you and Dad and Clara to shut up the house, jump into some good clothes and hustle on here to New York just as fast as steam will bring you. You’re going to see the World Series, take in the sights of New York and Boston, and have the time of your life. You’re going to have one big _ga-lorious spree_!

“Now notice what I’ve said, Momsey--_spree_. Don’t begin to figure on how little money you can do it with. You’ve been trying to save money all your life. This one time I want you to _spend_ it. Doll yourself up without thinking of expense, and see that that pretty sister of mine has the best clothes that money can buy. Don’t put up lunches to eat on the way. Live on the fat of the land in the dining cars. Don’t come in day coaches, but get lower berths in the Pullmans. Make the Queen of Sheba look like thirty cents. I want you, Momsey dear, to have an experience that you can look back upon for all your life.

“I’ve engaged a suite of rooms for you in the Marlborough Hotel--a living room, two bedrooms and a private bath. Reggie Varley and Mabel are stopping there now, and they’ll be delighted to see you. They often speak of the good times they had with you when they were at Riverside. And you know how fond Clara and Mabel are of each other.

“Tell Sis that Jim Barclay, my chum, has seen her picture and is crazy to meet her. He’s a Princeton man, a splendid fellow, and I wouldn’t mind a bit having him for a brother-in-law.”

“The idea!” exclaimed Clara, tossing her pretty head and blushing like a rose, but looking not a bit displeased, nevertheless.

“Now don’t lose a minute, Momsey, for the time is short and the Series begins next week. You’ll have to do some tall hustling. Wire me what train you’ll take, and I’ll be there with bells on to meet you and take you to the hotel.

“Am feeling fine. Best love to Dad and Sis and lots for yourself from

“Your loving son,

“JOE.”

There was silence in the room for a moment after Clara finished reading. They looked at each other with hearts beating fast and eyes shining.

“New York, Boston, the World Series!” Clara gasped in delight. “Pinch me, Dad, to see if I’m dreaming! Oh, Momsey!” she exclaimed as she danced around the room, “Joe put it just right. It’s going to be a ‘_ga-lorious spree_!’”