Postage Stamps
Next morning, the snowstorm having abated, the boys went outside in a
futile search for footprints. The snow had obliterated any tracks the
thief might have made in the immediate vicinity of the cabin, but down
by the boathouse, on the side sheltered from the wind, they found
several footprints. Frank took measurements of them.
“Might come in useful some day,” he commented. “I should say they were
made by a fairly big man.”
“How about food?” asked Chet, who had gone without breakfast.
“Right away. Joe and I will take our ice-boat and go down to the
village. You and Biff had better stay here.”
“Can’t I go with you? Perhaps I could get something to eat at the
village, and I wouldn’t have to wait so long.”
“You’ll eat with the rest of us,” laughed Frank.
“Why do you want Biff and me to stay?”
“I’m thinking the thief may not have taken those supplies away with him.
If Hanleigh did it, his purpose would be served by merely hiding the
food. You and Biff can spend your time hunting around the island. You
may find where the grub has been hidden.”
Chet’s face lighted up at this probability.
“Come on, Biff!”
The Hardy boys got into their ice-boat and started off, leaving their
two chums hopefully searching for the lost supplies.
The wind was favorable, and the Hardy boys reached the little village
down on the mainland in a short time. It was a summer resort, and at
this season of the year most of the houses were closed and boarded up,
but a few permanent residents stayed on the year round, among them being
the general storekeeper. His name, as it appeared from a weatherbeaten
sign hanging above the store, was Amos Grice.
The boys left their boat by a little wharf which was almost covered with
snow and made their way toward the store.
An elderly man with chin whiskers peered at them through his glasses as
they entered. He was sitting behind the stove, reading a newspaper and
munching at an apple, and he was evidently surprised to see any
customers so early in the morning, particularly strangers.
“How do, boys! Where you from?” he asked.
“We’re camping on an island farther up the bay,” Frank explained. “We
came here in our ice-boat.”
“Camping, hey? Well, it ain’t many that camps in the winter time. As fer
me, I think I’d rather set behind the stove when the colder weather
comes on. It’s more comfortable. What can I do for you?”
“Some one raided our cabin last night and stole all our food. We want to
get some more supplies.”
“Stole all your food!” exclaimed Amos Grice, clucking sympathetically.
“Well, now, that’s too bad. Fust time I ever heard of any thievin’ in
these parts. Was it a tramp, do you think?”
“We don’t know who it was, but we have an idea. I don’t think it was a
tramp. Just somebody trying to do us a bad turn.”
“A mean thing to do,” commented Mr. Grice, wagging his head. “Well, I
guess I can fix you up all right. What do you want to buy?”
The boys spent some time giving the storekeeper an order, and when the
goods had been wrapped up, Amos Grice invited them to sit down beside
the cracker barrel and “chat for a while.”
“It ain’t often I see strangers in the winter time,” he explained.
Frank and Joe told him that they could not stay very long, because their
chums were back at the island, awaiting their return with the supplies.
“Back at the island, hey? What island?” insisted Amos Grice.
“Cabin Island, it’s called.”
“Cabin Island, hey? Why, ain’t that Elroy Jefferson’s place? Little
island with a big log cabin on it?”
“That’s the place.”
“Why, I know Elroy Jefferson very well. When he was living on the island
in the summer months he used to come down here for his supplies.” Mr.
Grice cackled with delight at having found a common topic of
conversation. “Yes, I know Elroy Jefferson real well. He’s a fine
fellow, too, but very queer.”
“He’s a bit eccentric,” agreed Frank.
“Yes, he’s a queer old chap, but a better man never wore shoe leather.
How was he when you was last talkin’ to him?”
The boys decided to humor the lonely old storekeeper. Frank reflected
that possibly they might learn something about Hanleigh.
“He was quite well. He let us have the cabin for our outing.”
“Yes, that’s just like Mr. Jefferson. Got a heart of gold, specially
where boys is concerned. But queer—mighty queer in some ways,” said
Amos Grice, again wagging his head. “Do you know”—and he leaned forward
very confidentially—“I really think he married Mary Bender because of
her postage stamp collection.”
This amazing announcement left the Hardy boys rather at a loss for
words.
“He married his wife because of her postage stamp collection!” exclaimed
Joe.
“That’s what I said. You’ve heard of the Bender stamp collection,
haven’t you?” he demanded.
The boys shook their heads.
“Well, I ain’t a stamp collector and _I’ve_ heard of it. The Bender
collection is supposed to be one of the greatest collections of postage
stamps in the world. Why, I’ve heard tell that it’s worth thousands and
thousands of dollars.”
“And Mrs. Jefferson owned it?”
“Yep. Her name was Mary Bender then, and she inherited it from her
father. I got parts of the story from people who knew Mr. Jefferson
well. It seems he has always been a collector of antiques and old coins
and stamps and things, but one thing he had set his heart on was the
Bender stamp collection. But he couldn’t buy it. Either Mr. Bender
wouldn’t sell or Elroy Jefferson couldn’t raise the money—but somehow
he could never buy them stamps he had set his heart on.”
“So he married Mary Bender?”
“Well, now—maybe he didn’t marry her _entirely_ on account of the
stamps. You see, he used to call at the Bender house quite often, trying
to get Mr. Bender to sell the stamps, so in that way he met Mary Bender.
I’ve no doubt he fell in love with her, but, anyway, they got married,
and after Mr. Bender died his daughter got the stamps. So, of course,
then Mr. Jefferson got ’em. His wife turned ’em over to him as soon as
she inherited them.”
“And then what?” asked Joe, interested.
“Then,” said Amos Grice, with great effect, “the stamps disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“They went.”
“Stolen?”
“Nobody knows. They just went.”
“Haven’t they been found?”
“Never been found from that day to this. Not hide nor hair of them
stamps has been seen since.”
“Didn’t they have any clues?” asked Frank. “Were the stamps simply
lost?”
“They disappeared,” insisted Amos Grice. “And not only the stamps
disappeared. There was one of the Jefferson servants dropped out of
sight at the same time.”
“He probably stole the stamps and cleared out,” Frank suggested.
“If he stole ’em, why didn’t he sell ’em? The stamps have never been
heard of since they left the Jefferson home. This servant—his name was
John Sparewell—could have raised a lot of money by sellin’ the stamps,
but the stamps would have turned up sooner or later, because only other
stamp collectors would have bought ’em. But of all the rare stamps in
that collection, not one has ever been found.”
“That’s a strange yarn,” said Frank.
“You bet it’s a strange yarn. The stamps were all kept on sheets, in a
rosewood box. The day John Sparewell walked out of the Jefferson home,
the rosewood box disappeared from the safe it was always kept in.”
“Has no one ever heard of Sparewell? Didn’t Mr. Jefferson get the police
to look for him?”
“Certainly. But the police never found him. They sent descriptions of
this man Sparewell all over the world, but he never turned up. Queerest
story I ever did hear. Mary Bender died just a short time after. And
ever since the stamps were lost, Elroy Jefferson ain’t been the same.”
Amos Grice wagged his head sadly.
“How many years ago did this happen?” Frank asked.
“Oh, it must be nigh on fifteen or twenty years ago. Guess that explains
why you lads never heard of the Bender stamp case, because there was a
lot about it in the newspapers at the time. It was a mighty famous case,
I can tell you. It seemed to break Elroy Jefferson all up, because that
collection was the pride of his heart, and when it disappeared so
strangely, he just didn’t seem to take any more interest in anything.
What _I’ve_ always said was that if the police could only find this man
John Sparewell, they’d find what happened to the stamps.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“Yep. That’s the way I figgered it out. The only trouble was, they never
were able to find Sparewell.”
“I wonder why he stole the stamps if he never sold them,” said Joe.
“I guess he was up against it when he tried to sell ’em. He knew that
nobody but stamp collectors would buy the collection, and any stamp
collector would recognize the Bender collection right away and tell the
police. So perhaps he’s never been able to sell them and is waitin’
until Elroy Jefferson dies before he tries to make any money out of it.”
Frank and Joe got up.
“Perhaps that’s what happened,” Frank agreed. “Well, Mr. Grice, we’ve
been very much interested in the story, but we must be getting back to
the cabin or our chums will think something has happened to us.”
The boys paid for their supplies and then left the store, after saying
good-bye to the garrulous old man.
“Come again!” he called after them. “Drop in and have a chat any time
you want.”
The Hardy boys went down to their ice-boat, packed away the supplies of
food they had purchased, and headed back toward the island.
“So that’s the mystery in Elroy Jefferson’s life,” mused Joe.
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could find the Bender stamp collection
for him?” returned Frank.