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_!”
[Illustration: “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_!’”