II
It was a fortnight later that Willard, returning from practice with the high school football team, and passing in front of Mrs. Parson’s boarding-house, heard his name called and looked up to see Mr. Chase at the open window of his room.
“Come up and pay me a visit, Will,” said the Assistant Principal.
Willard hesitated a moment. He had been rather avoiding Mr. Chase for the last two weeks. Now, however, he waved his hand and, turning in at the gate, entered the house and climbed the stairs to the teacher’s room. Mr. Chase was seated at a small table by the window.
“Pardon me if I don’t get up, Will,” he said. “I’ve only got two more of these things to paste, and I want to get them in before the light goes. Well, how are you getting on at football?”
“Pretty fair, sir.”
“Find it more interesting than our old friend Homer, eh? You know we haven’t had a Greek lesson for a long time, Will.”
“No, sir, and I—I guess there isn’t any use having any more.”
“Why, how’s that? Think you know enough to get by those exams, do you?”
“I’m not going to take them, sir. I—I’m not going to college, after all.”
Mr. Chase looked up in surprise. “Not going!” he exclaimed. “Why, Will, I thought that was all settled. What’s changed your mind?”
Willard very nearly replied that Grandma Pierson had changed his mind, but he didn’t. Instead, “Father can’t afford it, sir,” he answered.
“Dear, dear, I’m sorry! Is it—quite settled? Isn’t there any hope, Will?”
“No, sir, I don’t think so. Not unless I earn the money somehow, and I guess I couldn’t do that!”
“It would take some time,” Mr. Chase agreed dubiously. “You’d need pretty nearly threehundred a year, Will, although you might scale that down a little. I’m sorry, awfully sorry.”
“Yes, sir, so’m I.”
There was silence for a moment. Then Mr. Chase asked: “And you don’t think you want to go on with the Greek, eh? Suppose you found next Fall that you could go after all, my boy. You’d have hard work passing, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t believe there’s any hope of it, sir.”
“Still, the unexpected sometimes happens, doesn’t it? You wouldn’t want to lose your chance for the want of a little Greek, now, would you?”
“No, sir, but——”
“Then don’t you think we’d better go on with our Friday evenings, Will? I do. Even if you shouldn’t get to college, my boy, a working knowledge of Greek isn’t going to be a bad thing to have. Now suppose you drop in on Friday after supper?”
“Very well, sir, I guess I might as well. I—I haven’t studied much lately, though.”
“Better look it over a bit before Friday then. There, that’s done! Now we’ll light up and have a chat.”
“I didn’t know you collected stamps, Mr. Chase,” said Willard as the teacher closed the window and lighted the study lamp on the big table.
“Haven’t I ever shown you my books?” asked Mr. Chase. “Yes, I’m a ‘stamp fiend,’ Will. It’s not a bad hobby. Expensive, though. I couldn’t afford it if I was married. I suppose,” he added ruefully, “I oughtn’t to afford it now.”
“I started to collect stamps when I was a little kid,” confided Willard as he took the chair Mr. Chase pushed forward, “but I didn’t get very far. I don’t know what ever became of my stamps. I guess they’re in the attic, though.”
“Yes? Did you have many?” asked Mr. Chase as he washed the mucilage from his fingers at the stand.
“Only about a hundred, I guess. I had a Cape of Good Hope, though.”
“Did you?” Mr. Chase inquired. “Which one was it?”
“I don’t remember. Is there more than one!”
“Quite a few,” Mr. Chase laughed. “And they differ considerably in value. You must show me your collection sometime.”
“I guess it isn’t worth showing,” murmured Willard. “I guess all my stamps are just common ones. There was one, though, I paid a dollar for. I forget what it was. I suppose you have an awful lot?”
“About twelve hundred only, I believe, but some of them are rather good. When I stop to consider what those stamps have cost me, though, I have to shudder. Still, stamps—rare ones, I mean, aren’t a bad investment. You know the good ones increase in value right along.”
“Twelve hundred!” exclaimed Willard. “Why, I didn’t know there were so many stamps in the world!”
“There are a good many more than twelve hundred,” replied the teacher with a smile. “And I don’t go in for ‘freaks’ much, either; nor revenues. Revenues in themselves would keep a man busy.”
“What do you mean by freaks?” asked Willard.
“Oh, ‘splits’ and ‘blanks’ and surcharges and such. Of course, though, I have a few surcharges.”
“And what is a split, Mr. Chase?”
“A split is a stamp of, say, two-cent denomination cut diagonally across. Each half equals in value a one-cent stamp. Some time ago when an office ran out of one-cent stamps it would cut up a lot of twos. Sometimes a ten-cent stamp was split to make two fives, and in one case three-cent stamps were cut in such a way that two-thirds of them did duty for a two-cent stamp. Later, when the government ran out of a certain issue they merely took a stamp of a lower denomination and surcharged it, that is, printed over it the larger denomination. I have a friend who makes a specialty of provisional stamps, such as ‘splits’ and ‘postmasters.’ He pays no attention to anything else, and has two full books already, I believe.”
“Some stamps cost a lot, don’t they?” Willard asked.
“Unfortunately, a good many of them do,”Mr. Chase chuckled. “There’s a rumor that someone paid seventeen thousand dollars not so long ago for a pair of Mauritius postoffice stamps, one-penny and two-penny. Those are mighty rare and I’ve never seen them. Then there’s the British Guiana one-cent and the Niger Coast Protectorate; one of the latter—I forget its list number—is perhaps the rarest stamp in the world, since only one of its kind was ever printed.”
“My!” said Willard. “That must be worth a lot!”
“So much that it’s never had a price put on it, I guess. Some of our own stamps are worth quite a lot, too. Take some of the Postmasters’ Provisionals, for instance. Only one copy is known of an issue from Boscawen, New Hampshire, and whoever has that surely has a prize.”
“What is a Postmasters’ Pro—what you said?”
“Provisional?” laughed Mr. Chase. “I’ll show you.” He reached under the table and pulled out a big square album, and Willard moved his chair nearer. “Provisional stamps were made and issued by postmasters in thedays before we had a national postage stamp system. Here’s one issued in Trenton, New Jersey, and here’s one from Portland, Maine. See? Some of them are pretty simple; just the name of the office and the words ‘Paid—5.’ They’re interesting, though, and, as I say, some of them bring a lot of money.”
“How—how much did those cost?” asked Willard eagerly.
“These? Oh, not much. This one was twelve and—let me see—that was eight, I think, and——”
“Eight cents!”
“Hardly! Eight dollars, my boy.”
“Well—well, if they came from some other place would they be worth that much?” stammered Willard.
“Depends on how many there are; how rare they happen to be. It’s scarcity that fixes the prices on stamps—and most other things.”
“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 motherhasthrown 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 appearanceof 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 thereisn’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 ShrevesportHigh 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’sblue!” 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 dozenof 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 mailthese 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.