Part 6

“Supposing they were from Alexandria, Virginia,” Willard pursued rather breathlessly.

Mr. Chase closed the book and replaced it under the table.

“If they came from Alexandria and were genuine, they’d be worth quite as much as these, perhaps more. Why do you ask? You don’t happen to have one in your collection, do you?”

“Yes, sir! That is, not in my collection, but I’ve got some that――that my grandmother sent me.”

“What! Postmaster Provisionals of Alexandria, Virginia? Are you certain? What are they like? What are they?”

Mr. Chase was plainly interested.

“I don’t know whether they’re Postmaster Provisionals,” replied Willard, “but they’re a good deal like those in your book. They’re round and sort of yellowish-brown――――”

“Yes, buff; go on!”

“And they have some stars around the edge and the name and ‘Paid――5’ in the middle, just like those of yours.”

“You say your grandmother gave them to you?”

“Yes, sir.” And thereupon Willard told about the legacy and Mr. Chase learned the real reason why the college career had been abandoned. And when he had finished Mr. Chase strode to a bookshelf and returned with a catalogue. After some excited turning of pages he paused and read silently. “That’s right,” he said finally. “Your description tallies with Scott’s. Where are those envelopes, Will? Can you let me see them?”

“I guess they’re at home. I haven’t seen them since that day. I――I hope mother didn’t throw them away!”

“Throw them away!” Mr. Chase slammed the book shut, tossed it aside and seized Willard’s cap from the couch. “Put this on,” he exclaimed, “and scoot home! Find those envelopes and bring them over here! If your mother _has_ thrown them away you’re out sixty or seventy dollars at least!”

“Where are those envelopes, mother?” asked Willard five minutes later, bursting into the kitchen where Mrs. Morris was in the act of sliding a pan of hot biscuits from the oven. The pan almost fell to the floor and Mrs. Morris straightened up to remonstrate against “scaring a body to death,” but the words died away when she saw Willard’s face.

“What envelopes do you mean, Will?” she gasped.

“The ones Grandma Pierson sent! Mr. Chase says those stamps may be worth seventy dollars!”

“Sakes alive, Willard Morris! You don’t mean it? Why――why――what did I do with them? Haven’t you seen them around?”

“No, I haven’t seen them since the day they came. Don’t you know what you did with them, mother?”

“Why――why,” faltered Mrs. Morris, “it doesn’t seem as if I did anything with them, Will! I don’t recollect seeing them after you and your father went off. Will, you don’t suppose”――her voice became scarcely more than a whisper――“you don’t suppose I threw them away, do you?”

“You wouldn’t be likely to, would you?” he asked anxiously. “Won’t you please try and think?”

“I am trying, Will, but――but I can’t remember seeing them again.” She hurried to the dining-room, which was also the sitting-room, and began a feverish search. Willard followed behind her and looked wherever she did, and in two minutes the room had the appearance of having been devastated by a cyclone. And in the midst of the confusion Mr. Morris entered. Being excitedly informed of what was going on, he, too, took a hand in the hunt. But ten minutes later they all had to acknowledge that the envelopes were not in the room.

“I don’t see what I could have done with them,” reiterated Willard’s mother for the twentieth time.

“Maybe you shook ’em out the door when you shook the cloth,” suggested Mr. Morris. And his wife had to own that such a thing was quite possible, adding, however, “Only I’d been almost certain to have seen them when I cleared the dishes off. Are you sure you didn’t take them, Will?”

“I know he didn’t,” said Mr. Morris. “I remember seeing them lying right here when I left the room.”

“Well, then I did something with them, that’s certain,” murmured Mrs. Morris, looking dazedly about, “but I don’t see what!”

“I guess we’d better have supper,” said Willard’s father. “We can have another look afterward.”

So Mrs. Morris returned to her duties, while Willard, preparing hastily for the meal, returned to the room and continued the search. At the table he ate very little, and as soon as supper was over he began rummaging again. The search ultimately led from the dining-room to the parlor, from the parlor to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the hall closet and from there to the bedrooms upstairs. And at eight o’clock Mrs. Morris, lamp in hand, was peering about in the attic! At half past eight Willard went to the telephone and, calling Mr. Chase up, acknowledged defeat.

“You can’t find them?” came the teacher’s voice. “That’s too bad. Are you――er――are you quite sure you had them, Will?”

“Yes, sir, I am,” replied Willard a trifle shortly. “If you don’t believe me you can ask father.”

“Have you looked in the waste baskets and the ash can and――and those places?”

“We’ve looked everywhere. I guess what happened was that my mother shook the tablecloth at the back door and they were in it and fell out.”

“Well, I’d have another look to-morrow by daylight,” advised Mr. Chase in disappointed tones. “Don’t give up yet, Will. You may find them tucked away where you least expect to. I’m awfully sorry. Good-night.”

Willard hung up the receiver. “Of course he doesn’t care,” he muttered resentfully. “Gee, if I could find those envelopes and get seventy dollars for the stamps, I’d have to earn only about a hundred and eighty to have enough for the first year. He says it’ll take ’most three hundred, but I’m sure I could do it on two hundred and fifty. And if I could get through the first year they’d have a whole lot of trouble keeping me away the second!”

In the morning, after a sleep badly disturbed by dreams, Willard was up early and, after the kitchen fire was started, was out in the back yard searching around the kitchen doorway, amongst the currant bushes and along the picket fence. But he found no trace of the envelopes. That was Tuesday and hope didn’t actually fail him until Thursday. On that day Mr. Morris put his foot down.

“They’re gone for good, mother, and there isn’t any use fretting about ’em. So you just stop pulling the house to pieces and settle down again. When a thing’s so, it’s so, and you can’t make it any other way, no matter how much you worry about it. You haven’t taken time to eat a decent meal since the pesky things were lost. Now I say let ’em go and have an end of it!”

That evening Willard found his old stamp book in the attic and took it over to Mr. Chase. But although the latter went through it carefully, he found no prizes there. The entire contents wouldn’t have brought a dollar at a stamp dealer’s. When he was leaving Mr. Chase reminded him that they were to begin the Greek lessons again the next evening. Willard hesitated and then promised half-heartedly to come. What was the good of knowing Greek if he couldn’t get to college?

But at seventeen no disappointment is big enough to last forever, and Friday was a wonderful Autumn day with just the right amount of tingle in the air, and at football practice Willard played so well that the coach promised to let him start the game against Shrevesport High the next afternoon, and――well, after a good supper eaten with a healthy appetite, Willard had quite forgotten about Grandma Pierson’s legacy! And at half past seven he found his Iliad――it wasn’t an easy task, either, because since the search for the lost envelopes scarcely anything was where it used to be!――and set out for Mrs. Parson’s with a light heart.

“I didn’t have a chance to study this any,” said Willard as he seated himself across the table from Mr. Chase. “I’ve been too busy looking for those envelopes, you see. So you’ll have to excuse me if it comes slow.”

“All right, Will, I’ll forgive you this time. Do you remember where we left off? Wasn’t it where Ulysses and Diomede are setting out to spy on the enemy’s camp?”

“No, sir, we were way past that. I’ve got the place marked. I think――――”

“Hello, what’s wrong?” exclaimed Mr. Chase.

“Why――why――here they are! They were in this book!”

“Eh? What were in――――”

“Those envelopes, sir! Look!”

And there they were, sure enough; all together and with the bit of faded blue ribbon about them! Mr. Chase, beaming, held out his hand for them. Willard, still exclaiming, hazarding theories as to how they got into his Iliad, followed around the table while Mr. Chase carefully slid off the band of ribbon and looked them over.

“‘Alexandria,’” he muttered, “‘Paid――5,’ They’re the real thing, Will! By Jove, what a find! Perfect condition, too! Not a tear on one of them! And no――_hello, what’s this_?”

“What, sir?” asked Willard.

Mr. Chase was staring at the last envelope as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Why――why, it’s _blue_!” he almost shouted.

“Yes, sir, I――I forgot that one was blue. There were five of them brown and one blue. Isn’t――isn’t it any good?”

“Any good!” exclaimed Mr. Chase. “Any good? It――it’s――――”

Over went his chair and he had seized the catalogue from the shelf. “Any good!” he muttered as he turned the pages quickly. “Any good! Any――――” His voice died out and Willard, wondering, watched his lips move as he read silently. Then the teacher studied the envelope again. “‘Ditto,’ he murmured, ‘on blue.’” Then he closed the catalogue slowly and decisively and laid it on the table. Willard watched him fascinatedly. He had never seen Mr. Chase look so excited, so wild-eyed as this! Was it possible that the Assistant Principal had suddenly lost his mind?

“Will,” said Mr. Chase slowly and solemnly, “I――I can’t be sure――I’m afraid to be sure――but if this stamp is genuine it’s worth――――” He stopped and shook his head. When he continued it was to himself rather than to Willard. “There may be a mistake. Perhaps the catalogue’s wrong. We’ll wait and see.”

“Do you mean,” asked Willard eagerly, “that the blue one is worth more than the others?”

Mr. Chase laid the envelope on the table and was silent a moment. When he answered he was quite himself again.

“It looks so, Will. Yes, I think I may safely say that the blue stamp is worth quite a little money. You see, there are two or three dozen of the buff ones known of, but so far only one or two blues have ever shown up. But I may be mistaken; don’t get your hopes up until we’ve had it examined, my boy.”

“How much is it worth if――if it is――what you think?” asked Willard.

Mr. Chase shook his head. “Let’s not talk about that now. I――there’s the possibility that I may be mistaken. Will you let me have these for a week or so? I’d like to send them to the city and get expert advice.”

“Of course. You do anything you like with them, sir. Only if you care for it I’d like you to have one of them, Mr. Chase.”

“That’s nice of you, Will, but I couldn’t take one as a gift. I’ll gladly buy one if I can afford it. Or――wait a bit! If this blue one is worth what I think it is, I’ll accept one of the buff stamps as a present. How will that do?”

“I’d like you to have one anyhow, sir. Do you think the blue stamp is worth――worth a hundred dollars?” asked Willard.

“Will, I don’t dare to say. Yes, perhaps a hundred; perhaps more, much more――unless I’m making a bad mistake somehow. I’ll mail these to-morrow and we ought to hear inside a week. Now――now let’s get back to the lesson.”

But Willard didn’t make much progress that evening.

III

Of course Mrs. Morris remembered when Willard told her.

“Isn’t it funny?” she asked beamingly. “It all comes back to me now. When I went to clear off the table those envelopes were there and I thought to myself, ‘Those are Will’s and he may want them after all, and I’ll just tuck them in his Greek book.’ It was lying on the side table there. And then I forgot all about it! I’m so sorry, Will!”

“It doesn’t matter a bit now,” Willard declared. “How much do you suppose that blue stamp will be worth, mother?”

But Mrs. Morris shook her head. “Goodness knows, Will! But maybe it’ll bring enough to buy you a nice suit of clothes and――――”

“Clothes!” scoffed Willard. “That money is going to put me in college. If there isn’t enough of it I’ll get a job somewhere next summer and earn the difference. I heard of a fellow who made nearly three hundred dollars one summer just selling books!”

“It’s my opinion,” declared Mr. Morris, “that that stamp is worth a whole lot of money and that your grandma knew it.”

“I don’t see how she could, sir,” Willard objected. “Why, even Mr. Chase isn’t certain about it yet.”

“Mother was a great one to read the papers,” said Mrs. Morris, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if she saw sometime that stamps like that were valuable. She was forever cutting things out of newspapers and saving them.”

“We’ll wait and see,” said Mr. Morris. “You’ll find I’m right, son. And if I am I’ll be mighty pleased!”

Waiting, though, was hard work for Willard. For a week he managed to be fairly patient, but at the end of that period he began to be uneasy. “You don’t think they got lost in the mail, do you?” he asked Mr. Chase.

“They couldn’t because I didn’t send them by mail. I was afraid to. I sent them by express and put――well, a good big valuation on them. So, even if they should be lost, Will, you’ll have a lot of money coming to you from the express company.”

That was comforting, anyhow, and there were times when Willard hoped devoutly that the express company had mislaid the package. But it hadn’t. Four days later Willard was called to the telephone at suppertime.

“Will, can you come over here after supper?” It was Mr. Chase’s voice.

“Yes, sir! Have you heard――――”

“Yes, I’ve got a letter. You come over――――”

“Is it all right, sir? About the blue stamp, I mean.”

“Hm; well, you come over and I’ll tell you.” Something that sounded like a chuckle reached Willard. “Good-by!”

“I’m going over to Mr. Chase’s,” he announced. “He’s heard about the stamp. I don’t want any more supper!”

“What about it, Will?” his father asked eagerly. “How much’s it worth?”

“I don’t know yet. He wouldn’t tell me. Where’s my cap? Anyone seen―――― Here it is! I’ll come back right away――if it’s all right!”

“Hello, Will!” greeted Mr. Chase. “Nice evening, isn’t it?” There was a perceptible twinkle in his eye and Willard grinned.

“Yes, sir, it’s a fine evening,” he answered with a gulp.

“Yes, we’re having wonderful weather for the time of year. I got a reply from that fellow in New York. What did I do with it?” Mr. Chase pretended to have mislaid it and dipped into one pocket after another. Willard squirmed in his chair. “Ah, here it is,” said the teacher finally, drawing the letter from his inside pocket. “Now, let’s see.” He opened it with tantalizing deliberation. “I asked him to examine those envelopes and give me an estimate of their value. I didn’t tell him we had four more of them, by the way.”

“No, sir,” murmured Willard.

“Well, he says he will buy the buff one for twelve dollars. That’s less than I hoped to get for them and maybe we might do a little better somewhere else. What do you think?”

“Yes, sir; I mean――I don’t know!” blurted Willard.

“Now in regard to the blue one――――” Mr. Chase paused and looked across at the boy. What he saw seemed to please him, for he smiled. “I’ll read you what Watkins says about the blue one, Will. Let――me――see; here we are! ‘Of course you know you’ve got the prize of the year in the “black-on-blue.” I’ll take it off your hands if you want me to, but you’d probably do better at auction. The stamp is in perfect condition and, being on the original envelope, ought to fetch top price. There’s a big auction in December and you’d better let me list it for that if you want to sell it. Your letter doesn’t state whether you do or don’t. I’m keeping the stamps until I hear further. The last Alexandria Postmaster black-on-blue sold two years ago in this city to John Thayer Williams of Philadelphia. It was without envelope and slightly soiled. The price paid was twenty-six hundred. Your stamp ought to bring a couple of hundred more at least. Awaiting your instructions, respectfully yours, W. L. Watkins.’”

Mr. Chase folded the letter and smiled across at the boy.

“Well, what do you think of that, Will?” he asked.

Willard returned the smile rather tremulously.

“I think,” he began. Then he stopped, cleared his throat and began over again. “I think,” he said huskily, “that Grandma Pierson is going to send me to college after all, just as she promised!”

JONESIE USES HIS INFLUENCE

I

Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., sauntered along the aisle, his trim young body accommodating itself gracefully to the erratic swaying of the day coach. I speak of Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., as being trim, but you are not to picture him as slender. On the contrary, without being fat, he had in his fourteen years and some months of existence managed to cushion his frame with enough flesh to give him a comfortably well-rounded appearance. It seemed probable that later on the cushion would increase in depth and that the term trim would no longer be applicable. In fact, Daniel Webster Jones’s father――you saw his likeness on the cartoons holding his justly celebrated Creamette Biscuits――was quite abundantly upholstered. But at present, what with an easy and graceful carriage and a careful attention to the niceties of attire, Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., presented a most pleasing appearance. Under a straw hat which was absolutely the latest cry in masculine fashions, the boy’s copper-brown hair was brushed sleekly back from a well-shaped forehead. Grayish blue eyes, a nose rather too button-like to be called classical, a cherubic mouth, a nice, firm chin with a dimple in it, all these features set in a round, healthy, rosy-cheeked face combined to make Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., thoroughly attractive. Yet it was, I think, the qualities of mind and character illumining the ingenuous countenance that won folks to him. The gray-blue eyes seemed veritable pools of truthfulness, the button-like nose proclaimed uncompromising integrity, the cherub lips appeared formed for the utterance of pure and beautiful thoughts, and when Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., smiled, one felt oh, so glad that such innocence and candor existed in a deceitful world!

The boy’s progress through the car was neither unnoticed nor unheralded. Small and admiring juniors looked appealingly upward and sought recognition with a wistful “How d’ye do, Jones,” while upper-class fellows, rousing from the lethargy induced by a two-hour journey on a hot September afternoon, observed his advent with something of the same relief with which a traveler on the desert might catch sight of an oasis and hailed him hopefully with a “Hi, Jonesie!” But Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., merely nodded with just the correct amount of superciliousness to the juniors――one had to keep the kids in their place――and returned the greetings of the others with preoccupied gravity. Oddly enough this had the effect of causing smirks and winks and nudges amongst the older fellows and one felt glad that Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., was unconscious of the levity. One felt certain that it would have wounded him.

The car was filled almost to its capacity, yet here and there a seat held but one occupant. At such a seat, near the front of the coach, Jonesie――for after all why should we accord him the dignity of his full title when no one else did?――Jonesie, then, paused indecisively and caught the shy upward glance of the seat’s only occupant, a boy of perhaps thirteen years of age.

“Mind if I sit here?” asked Jonesie most politely. “Sorry to bother you, but everything’s pretty well filled up.”

“Not――not at all!” stammered the other boy. He tugged frantically at a fat suitcase bearing the inscription “J. A. W.” on the end and squeezed toward the window. Jonesie murmured his thanks and seated himself with a sigh, folding his arms and staring ahead of him with a thoughtful frown. The train swayed onward in a cloud of gray dust. After a moment the original occupant of the seat took courage and studied his neighbor out of the corners of his eyes. He liked what he saw and wondered sympathetically what weighty care was clouding the brow under the stunning straw. At that moment Jonesie unclasped his arms and began to study a purple blister at the base of the second finger on his right palm. The other boy, interested, looked, too. It was a most promising blister. He speculated as to the cause of it and considered its future treatment rather enviously. And at that moment the proud possessor of the blister looked up and caught his glance embarrassingly.

“Played thirty-six holes yesterday,” said Jonesie. “Hadn’t golfed before all summer.” He frowned at the blister, wiggling his finger experimentally. “Beastly bother,” he added disgustedly.

“Yes,” agreed the other, almost with enthusiasm. The sympathy seemed to draw Jonesie’s attention to his companion for the first time and he turned and shot a brief and speculative glance at him. Then,

“Randall’s?” he inquired.

“Yes, I――I’m just entering.”

“Ah!” Jonesie beamed with a sudden friendly interest. “That’s fine. Lower Middle, I suppose?”

“N-no, just Junior,” returned the other apologetically.

Jonesie nodded. “Should have thought you’d enter Lower Middle. You look it.” The new boy flushed with pleasure at the implied tribute to his age, wisdom and experience. “I’m in the Lower Middle myself,” continued Jonesie, crossing one smartly clad leg over the other and assuming an attitude promising confidential discourse. “Hope you will like the school.”

“I――I think so, thank you,” murmured the other. “I don’t know much about boarding schools, though. I suppose it will be――be sort of strange at first.”

“Probably,” replied Jonesie sympathetically. “Of course a new boy has quite a lot to learn, but you’ll get on to things after a bit. It isn’t a bad school, Randall’s. I dare say you know some of the fellows?”

“No.” The other shook his head a trifle dejectedly. “I guess I don’t know a soul there.”

Jonesie frowned. “That makes it harder,” he acknowledged. “But you’ll find friends after a bit,” he added hopefully. “Sooner the better, too, for there’s nothing like having an older fellow to――er――sort of give you a hand over the rough places.” Jonesie regulated carefully the expanse of violet and gray cuff showing beyond his coat sleeve. “At least, that was my experience. Take the matter of athletics, for instance―――― But perhaps you don’t go in for that sort of thing?”

“Oh, yes!” replied the other eagerly, “that is, I hope to. I――I’m very fond of football.”

“Fine game, football,” commended Jonesie. “And that’s a――er――a case in point. Of course you’ll want to make the School Team; every fellow does.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect to do that! Not the――the first year!”

“Why not? Fellows have done it. Don’t know why you shouldn’t if you buckle down to it. I dare say I had a close shave from getting on the School myself the first year. Unfortunately illness――er”――Jonesie’s gaze wandered along the bell rope――“illness prevented. Quite a blow to the Coach.”

“You――you are on the Team now?” asked the other eagerly.

Jonesie shook his head regretfully. “No, I never got into football after that. Doctor’s orders. Perhaps next year――I’m so much better――――” He sighed and then smiled brightly, bravely. “Well, it doesn’t matter, I guess.”

“Oh, but if you’re really fond of the game,” exclaimed the other boy feelingly, “it must be――be an awful disappointment! I――I’m sorry!”

“Thanks. Yes, of course it _is_ a disappointment, but”――Jonesie shrugged his shoulders――“life is full of disappointments and one soon learns to――er――accept them philosophically. Now take your case――er―――― You didn’t tell me your name, did you?”

“No. It’s Wigman.”