Kitabı oku: «Our Next-Door Neighbors», sayfa 8
Chapter XIX
Which Has to Do with Some Letters
One morning when I came down to my office, I found a letter postmarked from the city in which Uncle Issachar lived addressed to me. I opened it and found inclosed, with seal unbroken, the letter Silvia had mailed to her uncle and which she had marked “personal.” There was a note addressed to me accompanying it:
“Dear Sir:
“I am returning herewith your personal letter to Mr. Innes, as he has gone to South America and left no forwarding address. Should such be received from him at any future date, you will be duly notified thereof.
“Very truly yours,“Chester K. Winslow,“Secretary.”
I read the above to Silvia at luncheon. She was grievously disappointed because her uncle had not received her letter of explanation.
“It is most fortunate,” she said, “that I sent it in one of your office envelopes.”
As usual, she had found the bright spot she always looked for and generally discovered.
“I wouldn’t care,” she said, “to have Uncle Issachar’s private secretary or the dead-letter office know all our private affairs, but I shall feel like an impostor until Uncle Issachar is undeceived.”
“I feel a hunch,” said Rob, “that Uncle Issachar will run across Doctor Felix and his wife down there in Chili and find you out.”
“He may run across the Polydores,” I replied, “but he’ll never find out from them that they are the parents of Silvia’s children. They would not mention a subject in which they have so little interest.”
“But,” argued Beth, “naturally they’d tell him where they lived, and then, of course, he’d say he had a niece living in the same town. They would inquire her name and inform him that they were her near neighbors, and then he’d tell them what fine sons you have, and then, of course, the Polydores would claim their own.”
“Which theory goes to show,” said Silvia, “how little you know Uncle Issachar and the Polydore seniors. He would not think of speaking to strangers, and if he did, he wouldn’t say any of those usual conversational things you mentioned. The Polydores wouldn’t be interested, in the least, in knowing he had a niece unless she happened to know something about antiques, and if he should describe her children, she wouldn’t recognize them.”
After luncheon I went out on the porch. While I sat there, the mail carrier came along and handed me a letter–a returned letter. It was directed in Ptolemy’s round hand to Mr. Issachar Innes. He had evidently used the envelope to Silvia’s letter to her uncle as his model, for the address was written in the same way. “Personal” was added in the left-hand corner, and his name and our house number was in the upper left-hand corner.
I went into the library where my wife, Beth, Rob, and Ptolemy were sitting.
“Ptolemy,” I said, handing him the letter, “here is your communication to Uncle Issachar, returned.”
He lost some of his usual sang froid and appeared quite disconcerted.
“Why, Ptolemy,” exclaimed Silvia in consternation, “what in the world did you write to Uncle Issachar about?”
Ptolemy had recovered and was quite himself again.
“About us,” he said innocently. “As the oldest of our family, I thought I ought to do a little explaining.”
“And I think,” I said, looking at him keenly, “that we have the right to know what your explanation was.”
Ptolemy handed me over the letter.
“Read it aloud,” he said, with the air of one who is proud of his productions.
Rob’s eyes shone in anticipation.
I broke the seal. A note from the secretary fell out. It was an apology for not returning the letter sooner, but it had been inadvertently mislaid. I then read aloud the letter Ptolemy had written:
“Dear Uncle Issachar
“I am sorry Diogenes and I were away when you were here. You thought the others were fine, but you should have seen–Diogenes. I hope you will send mudder back her check, because there is lots of things she needs, and it takes a lot of money to take care of all us. You see our own father and mother don’t want to be bothered with us and they went away and left us, and so we are living with mudder the same as if we were really her adopted children, and if her own would have been worth five thousand per to you, I think her adopted children ought to be worth half as much anyway, so it would only be fair to send her a check for $12,500 anyway, and if you are a good sport like the kids said you were, you’ll send back her check.
“Yours truly,“P. Issachar Polydore Wade.”
Rob’s laughter was so free and spontaneous that I had to join in against my will. Ptolemy, who had seemed a little apprehensive of the verdict, looked accordingly relieved.
“That’s a fine letter, young man,” approved Rob. “Stepdaddy ought to take you into his law firm.”
“No,” declared Beth. “I think Ptolemy has inherited his mother’s gift. He should be a writer.”
“Not on your life!” cried Ptolemy with feeling. “I want to live things instead of writing about them.”
A tear or two came into Silvia’s eyes.
“It was very sweet in you, Ptolemy, to try to get the money for mudder.”
I felt that all this commendation was bad for Ptolemy, and that it was up to me to take a reef in his sails.
“It was a well-meant letter, Ptolemy,” I said, “and I know that your motive was unselfish, but it is very poor policy to meddle in other people’s affairs. Meddlers are mischief makers in spite of their good intentions. I am very glad it did not fall into Uncle Issachar’s hands.”
Ptolemy looked sufficiently squelched.
“By the way, Silvia,” I said. “I wrote Mr. Winslow and told him not to forget to forward Uncle Issachar’s address as soon as he possibly could do so, as I had matters of importance to communicate to him.”
“He may travel about like father and mother,” said Ptolemy, again regaining confidence, “so why don’t you put that check for twenty-five thousand in the Savings Department and get the interest on it anyway?”
“I think, Ptolemy,” said Rob, “that you are too good a financier, after all, to become a lawyer. I will go back to my first conviction that you should be a promoter.”
“We’ll give him to Uncle Issachar,” I proposed, “for a partner.”
Chapter XX
“The Money We Earnt for You”
Life went on uneventfully save for the dire doings of “Them Three.” Knowing that they were to be sent to school, they were having their last fling at life untrammeled. September came, and Rob set the day for his departure, as he was going home to arrange his affairs, so he and Beth could leave for an extended honeymoon trip. I planned to go with Rob and install the Polydore three in their distant school. They were so despondent at leaving, as the time drew near, that a feeling of gloom hung over the household, all the members of which, even to Huldah, urged me to relent. But I remained adamant until the evening before the day set for the dissolution of the Polydore family, when something happened that changed all our plans.
We were assembled in the library in a state of forced cheerfulness when the doorbell rang. I answered it, and receipted for a telegram which I opened and read in the hall. It was from Chester K. Winslow.
“Silvia,” I said gravely, as I returned to the library, “your Uncle Issachar is dead. Died in South America. Heart disease. Very sudden.”
Conflicting emotions were depicted in Silvia’s expression.
The thought uppermost in all our minds was expressed simultaneously by “Them Three.”
“Gee! Then you can keep the money we earnt for you.”
“You know,” interpolated Rob in soft-pedaled tone, “they are going to train school children toward the military–teach the young ideas how to shoot, as it were. It won’t be long before they are ordered to Mexico to protect us.”
“If Them Three ever meets that there Viller man,” commented Huldah confidently, “the fur will fly some.”
“Lucien,” said Silvia thoughtfully, “we are under obligations to these children, you see, after all.”
“Yes,” I acknowledged with a sigh, “seeing they are now ours, bought and paid for, I suppose we’ll have to treat them as such.”
“You wouldn’t send your own kids away to school,” said Pythagoras significantly.
“No,” I reluctantly allowed, answering the protest of Pythagoras, “and we won’t send you. You will all go to the public school tomorrow.”
The deafening Polydore powwow that followed made me hope that Uncle Issachar had met with his just deserts.
