He had. That wise young Ananias had quietly provided for it all by
getting Inky Mike, who loftily terms himself a journalist (being a
pressman's assistant in a socialist weekly office), to set up and strike
off a brief and vague article which the Little Red Doctor himself had
composed for the occasion. Madam Tallaffer read it with heightened
color.
“This,” she said to Old Sally calmly, “is without doubt the Sign.”
From a beautifully inlaid box she reverently took an old buff envelope,
stamped and postmarked, and put it in the Little Red Doctor's hands.
“This, sirs,” said she, “is my talisman. It was given to me, as his most
prized possession, by my father, to whom it was written.”
“What do you value this at, Madam Tallafferr?” asked the physician.
Her reply came without hesitation. “Eighteen hundred and forty-five
dollars and fifty cents.”
The Little Red Doctor's jaw fell. “Eighteen--did I understand you to say
eighteen _hundred?_”
“And forty-five dollars and fifty cents. That is the minimum. It is
perhaps worth more.”
“Er--yes. Certainly. Very likely,” said the Little Red Doctor jerkily.
“I bid you good day, sirs,” said the Duchess. “You will, of course,
exercise every care of General Jackson's letter.”
We bowed ourselves out. On the sidewalk we looked upon each other in
dismay. “And Old Sally down to the last dollar,” said the Little Red
Doctor, neglecting to mention that he had given her the dollar.
“Let's try the letter on the trade, anyway,” piped Boggs hopefully.
“You can't tell but maybe it might be worth the money. _Is_ there an
autograph trade, dominie?”
In my capacity of omniscience, I chanced, happily for my reputation, to
be informed upon this and to be able to make some definite suggestions.
We went to Mr.
Barker's small and recherché curio shop, with the talisman. Mr. Barker
did not bark. He purred. The substance of his purring was that while the
letter was authentic beyond question and would be of interest to some
Southern historical society, it could claim no special value. As for
the prophetic feature, upon which so much stress had been laid, a mere
opinion that, “Be it sooner or be it later, the moot question of State
rights will demand a final settlement,” could hardly be regarded as an
inspired forecast of the Civil War. However, should we say twenty-five
dollars?
As the business brains of our delegation, Mr. Boggs, intrusted with the
bargaining, would not say twenty-five dollars. Mr. Boggs would not say
anything remotely suggesting twenty-five dollars. Mr. Boggs would say
good day, which he forthwith did in great disgust of spirit. From Mr.
Barker we went to Mr. Pompany. Mr. Pompany neither barked nor purred. He
mumbled. The upshot of his submaxillary communication was a dim “Twenty
dollars, take it or leave it.” We left it, and Mr. Pompany, the latter
with a Parthian arrow sticking in his soul (if he had one) in the form
of Mr. Boggs's firm opinion, delivered in a baleful squeak, that he
might be only an ignoramus, but had rather the appearance and bearing of
a swindler.
“Thieves!” piped Mr. Boggs on the sidewalk. “Thieves and fatheads, the
whole trade. What now?”
“Schepstein,” said the Little Red Doctor. “He's a thief too. But he
knows.” Schepstein received us in his grubby, grimy, desolated front
room, which did duty as an office, with a malevolent cross-fire from his
distorted eyes. “Bit of business?” he repeated after Mr. Boggs. “What
business? State your business.”
“For sale,” piped Mr. Boggs, handing him the letter which he had taken
from the envelope.
Hardly a glance did Schepstein give it. “Thomas Jonathan Jackson?
Who'she? And who's this Major Pemberton?”
Mr. Boggs explained, in indignant piccolo tones, who Thomas Jonathan
Jackson was. Not about Major Pemberton, however. No authority had been
given to our deputation to disclose the ownership of the letter; So far
as we were aware at that time, it would have meant nothing to Schepstein
anyway. We had no reason, then, to suppose that he even knew Madam
Tallafferr.
“Humph!” grunted Schepstein. “Stonewall Jackson, eh? Might be worth
something. Lessee the envelope.”
He looked it over carefully, front and back, folded the letter which he
had not even read, and slipped it back in. “Leave it with me overnight,”
he suggested negligently. “I'll think it over and make you a price in
the morning.”
“Think as much as you like,” returned Mr. Boggs, retrieving the
treasure. “We'll keep this. And we'll be back at eleven to-morrow.”
Observe, now, the advantages of living in a small self-centered
community like Our Square, where everybody has an intimate (if not
invariably friendly) interest in everybody else's affairs. Inky Mike
had noted with curiosity our visit to Schepstein. As a press tender,
the inky one naturally aspires to be a reporter, but his ideal reporter,
being derived mainly from journalism as set forth in the movies, is
a species of glorified compromise between Sherlock Holmes and Horace
Greeley in a rich variety of disguises. He had no disguise handy, but he
washed his face and followed Schepstein when that astute bargainer set
forth immediately after our visit. Further, he listened outside the
booth while the object of his sleuthing phoned a telegram. As he
reported it in great excitement to our trio, it was addressed to a
gentleman named Olds, in Cincinnati and read to this esoteric effect:--
“Alexandra local five forty-six perfect. What price? Answer quick.”
“Who's Olds?” asked the Little Red Doctor.
“Olds? Doncher know Olds?” cried Inky Mike. “The oil king? The
multamillionaire?”
“What has this to do with us?” I asked. “It seems to be some oil
quotation. What does Alexandra local' mean?”
“Search me!” offered the amateur sleuth. “But don'choo fool yourself!
It's your business, awright. He snook out after you went, shakin' all
over.”
Mr. Boggs, who from the first had been profoundly impressed by his
Duchess's tradition-inspired estimate of the autograph, nodded a
sagacious head. “Trust old Schep!” he fluted.
“When I've his money in hand; not before,” grunted the Little Red
Doctor.
When we called at the dingy and lonely flat on the following morning,
Schepstein's face was a mask of smiling craft.
“It's worth possibly--pos-sib-bly fifteen dollars as a spec,” he said.
“No,” cheeped Mr. Boggs.
“But the autograph market is looking up. I'll take a chanst and give you
twenty-five. Cash,” he added impressively.
“No,” repeated Mr. Boggs.
“What's the matter with you?” demanded Schepstein with rising
truculence. “D' you wan ta sell or don't cha? What's your price?”
“Eighteen hundred and forty-five dollars and fifty cents,” said Mr.
Boggs in a clear, businesslike soprano.
Schepstein did not sneer, nor explode, nor curse, nor do any of the
things which I confidently expected him to do. His convergent vision
seemed to focus on the buff envelope in Mr. Boggs's lumpy hand. He
looked thoughtful, and, it seemed to me, almost respectful. “As she
stands?” he asks.
“As she stands,” assented Mr. Boggs. “Bought,” said Schepstein. And he
wrote out a check to “Bearer.”
At this the Little Red Doctor lost his head and profoundly altered the
situation. “By thunder!” he cried, “Madam Tal-lafferr knew what she was
talking about all the time.”
Schepstein dropped his pen. “Who?” he asked in a rasping voice.
“Madam Tallafferr, across Our Square in Seventeen.”
“Was that her letter?”
“Yes. We are acting as her agents.”
“Ah, hell!” said Schepstein softly. Then an astounding thing happened.
Two small, pinched tears welled out from the ill-matched points of flint
which serve Schepstein for eyes. They were followed by two more.
The little, gnarly, cross-grained Jew drooped over the desk and his
shoulders shook. A voice of falsetto anguish roused him.
“Don't cry on the check! You'll smudge it.”
Schepstein lifted his head and gloomed at Boggs. “Nevamind that; it's
all off,” he gulped. “I got something to tell you people.”
Between queer, shamed breath-catch-ings, he told us about his Metta's
funeral. At the end he read us a telegram from Quentin Olds. When I was
able to assimilate its full meaning, I found myself shaking hands with
Schepstein, while Mr. Boggs danced a jig with the Little Red Doctor.
Then. Schepstein tore up the check for $1845.50 and invited us around to
the Elite Restaurant to luncheon, thereby affording a sensational
titbit of news for Polyglot Elsa's relating for a fortnight after. “Mr.
Schepstein, he paid the whole compte. Was kennst du about that!” Three
days were required to finish the deal. Then through Old Sally the
deputation trio sought and obtained another audience from the Duchess.
Mr. Boggs did the talking in terms worthy of his environment. “We have
successfully terminated the negotiations, Madame Tallafferr,” he began.
[Illustration: We have successfully terminated the negotiation 292]
The Duchess bowed in silent dignity.
“And I have now the honor of turning over to you eighteen hundred and
forty-five dollars and fifty cents, as--”
“Hally-loo-yah, tazmun!” burst out Old Sally. “Hally--hally--hally--”
She caught her mistress's austere glance. “I knowed it was cornin' so
all along,” she concluded, heroically compressing herself to a calm if
belated assurance.
“--as the minimum price stipulated,” pursued Mr. Boggs.
“I thank you,” said the Duchess.
“Also,” concluded the agent, “a balance, after deducting all expenses,
of two thousand one hundred and fifty-three dollars and twenty cents.”
The Duchess's face never so much as changed. “That is entirely
satisfactory,” she observed. “I have to thank you all for your
successful efforts in securing a suitable price. My only regret,” the
quiet voice faltered a little, “is that circumstances should have forced
me to part with an expression of esteem for my beloved father from one
who was the greatest military hero of all history.”
“You're in wrong, lady,” caroled Mr. Boggs, his rhetoric suddenly
melting in his excitement. “We sold the envelope alone for four
thousand dollars pet. There's only three other of them 1846 Alexandria
postmaster's stamps in the world today. So here's your Stonewall letter
as good as new.”
“My Gawsh!” said old Sally, and fell down upon the floor and rolled and
gave praise after the manner of her race, unrebuked this time of her
mistress.
That aged and grand dame took back the letter with a hand which, for all
that it had been rock-firm when it received MacLachan's revolver, now
trembled a little. But her sole comment was: “And yet there are those so
obstinate and shortsighted as to deny that the spirits guide us for our
own good.”
Once more, finely embossed stationery came pouring in at No. 17,
Our Square, proudly edifying the soul of Mr. Boggs. Once more Madam
Tallafferr went forth on missions of social splendor, westward and
uptown, sometimes in an automobile. Once more the restored Pemberton
diamonds glistened in the fine, withered ears, Old Sally having
confessed and been duly beaten and forgiven.
Old Sally herself, replete and pompous, trotted to and fro in Our
Square, brimful of smiling hints of a great honor that was to come to
us. Her young mist'ess, she let it be known, was graciously pleased to
be recognizant of the part, useful though humble, which Our Square had
played in her reestablished fortunes, and she was about to acknowledge
it in a manner worthy of her family and her traditions. In Old Sally's
own words, she was going to “mo' dan even it up wif you all.” Curiosity,
speculation, and surmise had become almost morbid in Our Square, when
one morning there burst upon us, in an effulgence of glory, a mail as
splendid as any which had ever brightened Mr. Boggs's worshiping eyes
on its passage upward to his top floor. To Mr. Boggs himself it came,
to Schepstein, to the Little Red Doctor, to me, to Polyglot Elsa, and
to many others, even down the scale as far as Inky Mike, this big white
envelope, sealed with a square of black sealing wax and inclosing a most
gratifyingly proud and stiff pasteboard card. That card still stands
carefully dusted on many a mantel of Our Square, a guerdon and
manifesto of social glory. At the top of it is blazoned the crest of the
Tallafferrs, standing between the flag of the Confederacy and the coat
of arms of Old Virginia. Below runs this legend--in real engraving if
you please:--
MADAM RACHEL PINCKNEY PEMBERTON TALLAFFERR
solicits the honor of your presence at
Number Seventeen, Our Square,
on Friday, November Eighteenth,
to view an autograph letter
indited to her honored father,
the late Major Bently Pemberton,
by