THE LOST LETTERS
BOB hardly knew what hysterics were. He thought that Miss Simmons was
in a fit.
“Don’t get scared, Walter,” he said to the little boy, who was
frightened and began to cry.
Bob jumped over the fence and ran to the pump in the yard. A cup hung
on a nail. He filled this with cool, fresh water, and ran back to Miss
Simmons. She was sitting up by this time and moaning, but she saw him
coming.
“Don’t throw that water on me,” she said. “I’m only faint. Let me
drink. Oh, those letters! those letters!”
Miss Simmons got to her feet, and at once fell against the fence again.
Bob wondered why she was so stirred up.
“I wouldn’t get so excited if I were you,” he said. “What about the
letters, Miss Simmons?”
“Oh, I can’t tell. That is—they are very precious—I mean important,”
stammered the old maid, covering her face with her hands.
“Maybe I can get them back for you.”
“Oh, could you? Can you?” cried the woman, eagerly.
“I can try,” said Bob. “Were there many of them?”
“Just twenty, Bob,” replied Miss Simmons.
“Twenty? Were they all addressed to you?”
“Yes, years ago. Oh, I must get them back at once, Bob—at once,” and
she acted as if she was going into another fit.
“Maybe people will bring them back to you,” said Bob.
“But they would read them first. Oh, I should die if they did! I would
leave town. Everybody would be laughing at me.”
“What would they laugh for?” asked honest Bob.
Miss Simmons did not reply to this. She only wrung her hands and looked
worried to death.
“Oh, Bob, please try and get those letters back,” she begged of him.
“I’ll pay you well.”
“I don’t want any pay,” said Bob. “Here, Walter, you come with me and
show me what you did with those letters.”
Bob caught hold of Walter’s hands, but the little fellow hung back.
“I don’t want to go,” he whimpered.
“Why not?” asked Bob.
“I’m all tired out.”
“I’ll carry you on my back part of the way,” promised Bob, “and I’ll
make you a fine kite next Saturday.”
“Oh, goody! I’ll go, I’ll go,” cried Walter.
“Now, Miss Simmons, you go in the house and get some rest and quiet,”
said Bob.
“Do you think you can get the letters back?” asked Miss Simmons,
anxiously.
“Don’t worry now,” said Bob. “I’m going to do the best I can, and, you
see, I stand a good show, getting after them so quickly.”
Miss Simmons went into the house, and Bob hoisted Walter to his back.
“Now then,” he said, “you must tell me just what you did with those
letters.”
“Yes, I will,” replied the little fellow, greatly delighted at the ride
and the promise of a kite. “You see, I went down this street to the
next corner.”
“Yes,” nodded Bob.
“Then I turned and went down one side of the next street and back the
other.”
“What did you do with the letters?”
“I went up on the stoops, just like the postman, and left a letter on
each step.”
“Did you knock or ring the bell?”
“Oh, no.”
“Why not? The postman does.”
“Yes, I know that,” said little Walter, “but I did it as a s’prise.”
“Oh, a surprise?”
“Yes, s’prise. That’s the first house,” said Walter, pointing around
the corner as they reached the next street.
Bob lowered Walter to a hitching-block, and went up the walk leading to
the house before which he had halted.
“That’s good,” he said to himself, as he saw the end of an old envelope
sticking out from half-way under the door.
“One of the twenty letters, anyway,” added Bob, placing the envelope in
his pocket, as he read the address of Miss Simmons upon it.
At the second house he saw no letter lying around the porch. A lady
came to the door. She knew Bob.
“I am looking for a letter Miss Simmons’ little nephew left on your
door-step,” he said.
“Oh, yes. I saw him come in, and I thought it was a circular. Then I
noticed Miss Simmons’ name on it, and guessed the little fellow was up
to some boyish prank. Here it is. I was going to return it to her.”
Thus Bob went down one side of the street. At every place but one he
found the letters where they had been left. At the one place a boy had
found the letter, and carried it as far as the street, and threw it
into the grass, where Bob now found it.
By the time Bob had gone up the other side of the street nearly to its
end, he had gathered up sixteen of the lost letters. There was only one
house left. It was a big residence. A rich family named Dunbar lived
there. Bob knew they were still absent at some summer resort.
“Did you leave any of the letters here, Walter?” he asked of his little
charge.
“Oh, yes, all of the rest of them.”
“How many?”
“Three—no, four, I guess,” replied Walter. “You see, it’s a big house,
and I thought a good many people would live in it.”
“Where did you put the letters?” asked Bob.
“I threw them right up on the porch.”
“I don’t see them,” said Bob.
The porch was sheltered by vines. Bob walked around the yard. He knew
that no one occupied the house just now. There was quite a breeze,
and he thought that maybe the wind had blown the letters out into the
garden.
Bob looked all about the lot. It slanted at the rear to a little creek.
He noticed papers and leaves all along this, but he did not come across
the missing letters.
“They must have blown away,” he said to himself, “unless they’re on the
other end of the porch. I’ll look there.”
Bob went up to the steps. He paused, a little surprised, as he noticed,
stretched out on a rustic settee in its shade, a shabbily-dressed man
he had never seen in Fairview before.
“Hello, mister,” spoke Bob.
“Why, hello, lad,” replied the man, getting up and looking Bob over in
a sharp, quick way. “Belong here?”
“No, I don’t,” said Bob.
“Neither do I. You see, I am tramping it through town. Sort of hot and
dusty. Nobody living here, so I thought no one would grudge me a trifle
of rest.”
“No, indeed,” said Bob, glancing all about the porch.
“Looking for something, lad?” asked the tramp, noticing this.
“Why, yes, I was,” answered Bob.
“What was it?”
“Some letters. That little boy out at the gate got hold of some letters
of his aunt, Miss Simmons. She lives down the street. He played
postman, and left them at a lot of houses.”
“Oh,” said the man, slowly, as if thinking hard, “that’s it, eh?
Valuable letters?”
“Why, I don’t suppose so,” replied Bob. “They were old letters that
Miss Simmons had kept for a good many years. She is dreadfully upset
about losing them.”
“Say,” grinned the man, “I’ll bet they’re old love-letters.”
“Maybe,” replied Bob. “Anyhow, there were twenty of them.”
“Twenty?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find any of them?”
“All except four,” replied Bob. “Little Walter says he left those on
this porch here. You didn’t see them, did you, mister?”
“Me? No,” said the man, in a sort of a shifty way.
“I thought you might, having been here probably when the little fellow
left them.
“Oh, I was snoozing,” declared the man. “Where do you suppose they went
to?”
“I think they have blown away among the litter down by the creek,”
explained Bob.
“Yes, that seems likely,” said the man.
He slouched down the steps and loitered about the gate as Bob took
little Walter away towards the home of Miss Simmons. As he turned into
her yard he happened to glance back. The man he had just left stood in
the middle of the sidewalk, watching where he went.
“Did you find them—oh, did you find them?” asked Miss Simmons,
anxiously, as Bob came up the steps.
“Most of them, Miss Simmons,” replied Bob, handing her sixteen of the
letters.
“There are four of them missing,” said the old maid, counting the
letters.
“Yes, ma’am. I know where Walter left them, though.”
“Where, Bob?”
“At the Dunbar house.”
“There is no one at home there now.”
“I know it, but the letters were gone. Tell you, Miss Simmons, I feel
pretty sure the wind blew them across the yard and in among a great lot
of litter near the creek.”
“Oh, I hope so! Oh, I hope no one will ever find them!” sighed Miss
Simmons. “I haven’t got any change in the house, Bob, but when you come
by again stop in, and I’ll give you ten cents.”
“Don’t think of it,” replied Bob. “When I have time, Miss Simmons, I’ll
make another search for those four missing letters.”
“You’re a good boy, Bob.”
“Thank you, Miss Simmons.”
“And—and, Bob, please don’t tell anybody I took on so about those
letters.”
“Oh, no, ma’am, I won’t,” promised Bob.
He went on his way, whistling. The man he had met at the Dunbar house
had gotten out of sight by this time. Bob supposed he was some tramp
passing through the village. He forgot all about him, and Miss Simmons,
too, as he hurried towards the schoolhouse.
There was a fine meadow right near the school grounds. This had been
chosen as a favorite spot for sport. The baseball and football teams of
the town played there regularly. It was marked off for both games, and
there were some benches at one corner of the field. At the other end
there was a tennis court.
“Those letters have made me late,” said Bob to himself, as he passed
the schoolhouse and saw the crowd of boys already gathered on the field.
Dave Duncan was just telling off the school teams for football. There
was some squabbling, as usual, on the part of Jed Burr.
“I’m not going to play till my right tackle comes,” he declared.
“Oh, we can’t wait for that,” said Dave.
“You’ve got to. You ain’t running my crowd.”
“I don’t want to,” said Dave, “but if you make me the manager I’ve got
to have some say, haven’t I? We’ll only practise this afternoon, and
get in trim for the real game Saturday.”
“All right,” grumbled Jed.
There was a merry boyish scramble as the game began. Not much attention
was paid to the rules, and that made it better than ever. Bob was quick
and active.
The boys had been playing for about twenty minutes, when a kick past
goal meant three hand-running for his side. He had got the football,
and was in position for a splendid play, when he saw Jed making for him
to spoil it.
“No fair!” shouted Sammy, Bob and some others.
Jed paid no attention to this. He ran forward all the faster. This made
Bob hurry. He gave the ball a wild kick.
“Hurrah!”
“Ya-ah! three times and out!”
Bob, with a good deal of pleasure, watched the leather sphere swing
past Jed. Then, with a little start, he stared hard as it landed.
A weazened old man was making a short cut across the end of the field.
The ball landed directly against his stomach.
It must have been going with some force, for at once the man doubled up
like a jack-knife.
He fell flat to the ground, his hat flying in one direction and his
cane in another. Sammy ran up to Bob with a look of dismay on his face.
“I say, Bob,” he spoke hurriedly, “we’re in for it now—it’s old Silas
Dolby!”