NO! NO! NO! GO ON! GO ON!
All right, there isn't much more. We had no guess how long the man had
been in the boat or whether he had starved or what. He might have been
dead several days, I thought. The life boat was awash. There was the name
of some ship or other on the bows, but the boat had been painted since the
name was printed there, and all I could make out was a few indistinct
letters under the fresh paint. I made out an L, then DY, then NNE. I have
a hunch the name was _Lady Anne,_ but maybe not.
The man must have been a pretty rough character from all I could judge; a
sailor, I daresay. It was out of the question rescuing the body. Every
ounce of weight in our own boat made it worse for us, and we couldn't have
hauled it over the side without danger. So we did the next best thing and
that was to go through his pockets in the hope of finding something to
identify him.
You getting sleepy? No? Well, we found a weather wallet on him. Know what
that is? It's a pocket-book made of rubber. You can see them in ship
supply stores all along South street in New York. In there he had two
hundred and seven dollars and a letter. The writing was all smeared and
some of it I couldn't read at all. I couldn't make out the address, out
I _think_ it was signed "Father."
That was no place to be doping things out, with the seas rolling us
goodness knows where, so I just stuffed the money in my trouser pocket,
because it made too big a wad to go in my wallet. But I dried the letter
as best I could and put it away in this little case I always carry. Here's
the case and here's the letter now. And I suppose that if there's any
mystery, as you call it, why this is _it_.
Now just wait and don't get excited and you'll see the letter. Just let me
finish. We pushed off from the life boat and I think it must have sunk
soon afterward. The sea got pretty calm after a while and late that
afternoon we were picked up by a schooner and set ashore.
Jake and I agreed to say nothing about our discovery; I'll tell you the
reason in a minute. He forgot and blurted out something about our finding
a life boat and it got into the newspapers, but no harm was done, because
after our rescue we gave the names of Mike Corby and Dan McCann and after
we had started home, no one knew who to hunt for, even if they wanted to.
But the principal reason we gave false names was, because my leave from
camp was already up and I didn't want anybody, my own folks especially, to
know that I had sidestepped home and mother to go off on a crazy fishing
trip. Get me? Jake went home and I haven't seen him since.
I hustled to Bridgeboro by train, sneaked over to Little Valley in a big
hurry to change my duds and-the house-boat was gone. The boy scouts had
carried away my uniform and Lieutenant Donnelle was a ragged outcast, a
couple of days overdue at camp.
How to get my uniform, that was the question. The boy scouts had done me a
bad turn. I traced the fugitive house-boat to St. George, Staten Island. I
lurked near shore till dark, and when a party of you kids came ashore and
one of you mentioned to another that a certain Roy had remained on board,
I said, "Here is my chance." I rowed over, made his acquaintance, took him
into my confidence, obtained his promise of silence, and changed my
clothes. I found him a bully little scout. The old rags which went by the
name of trousers I put into the locker, forgetting in my hurry, to take
the two hundred and seven dollars.
After fastening the locker I took some change out of my uniform to reward
our young friend, but he spurned my offer. I must have dropped the locker
key when I pulled the change out of my pocket. As you all know, little
Skinny found it and got himself suspected of hiding the money in the
locker. So much for that. I returned to camp and got slapped on the wrist
for being late.
But the letter which I had taken from that dead man I had with me, and
here it is now. When I visited Temple Camp upon the urgent plea of my old
pal Skeezeks, I claimed the two hundred and seven dollars, but it was not
mine.
_It wasn't the dead man's either._
Now listen to this water soaked letter, or as
much of it as I can make out:
--hundred dol--is a good deal of money.--
to--be careful.--such places--are likely
--get robbed.
thought you--glad--get the ring.--wear
--on second finger of left hand--war.--
these fifty years.--real cameo-heado--
Lincoln.--getting along--to--make two
ends meet--to each one who left our village
----------------------------
There is quite a lot more, but I can't make it out.
Well, kids, I've studied that letter like a spelling lesson and this is
what I make out of it. I can kind of see a picture of an old fellow that
fought in the Civil War. I don't know who he is or where he is. But I can
see him in an old faded blue uniform. I kind of like him. Look in the
fire, everyone of you, and keep your eyes fixed on the blaze. See him? I
do. I can see him just as plain--poor old codger. Funny thing, a campfire,
isn't it? I can see him better now than I could before. He's got white
hair and he's writing a letter to that kid of his in France and telling
him to be careful of that money. He's having a hard time trying to make
two ends meet. Poor old fellow, he's warning that son of his about places
in France where soldiers get robbed. I've seen some of those places,
sailors' hang-outs, in Brest, and I can back him up there.
I have a kind of hunch that the old fellow-put some more wood on, Roy-I
have a kind of a hunch that he sent the kid a ring, a cameo ring,
with the head of President Lincoln on it. I can see old honest Abe
now--right there where the new sticks are blazing up. Huh? Maybe it's only
a crazy notion; what do you say? But I've doped out a kind of a notion
that that old fellow got the ring when he started off to war; that somebody
or other presented one to each fellow; that left the village. I'd give a
doughnut to know where that village is.
Anyway, the old man wore it on the second finger of his left hand and I
kind of think he wanted that kid of his to do the same--over there in the
trenches.
Maybe I'm just a sort of a day dreamer, but that's the picture I've had in
my mind ever since I was fishing with Jake Holden. And it seems to all fit
together now when I look right there in that blaze. Pretty good camp-fire
yarn, hey? Not so worse? Just look into the fire yourselves and think
about that letter. Nothing but a kind of fancy, hey? Faces in the blaze
and all that sort of stuff. Never saw me get sentimental before, did
you--Skeezeks?
The funny part of the whole thing is that the man we saw in the boat
_didn't have any second finger on his left hand._ It couldn't have been
his finger the writer of the letter meant.