“Well, don’t do that. Hold it. I’ll call for it.”
The clerk wanted to ask questions, but decided not to do so. He took out a card and wrote something on it. “I think there’s a letter for you in the box now,” he said. “I’ll give it to you.”
Wint nodded; and a moment later the man handed him an envelope, and Wint turned away from the window. He met his father, face to face, at the door of the Post Office. Neither of them spoke.
Wint had dropped the letter into his pocket without looking at it. When he reached the hotel on the corner, he turned in, and sat down on one of the deep, leather chairs in the lobby, and drew out the envelope. The address, he saw, was typewritten. The letter had been mailed in town. The envelope was plain; and when he opened it he saw that the paper it contained bore no distinguishing mark.
The letter, like the address, was typewritten, and Wint read it once, and read it again with slowly kindling resentment. It said:
“Dear Wint:—
“You have made ducks and drakes of your life. And you have made yourself the butt of the town’s jokes. And you have made those who loved you the objects of derision.
“But your election as Mayor gives you the finest chance a man ever had to retrieve those old mistakes, to make a man of yourself, and to make a fine town of Hardiston.
“Take hold. Work hard. Live straight. And be sure that there are some true friends who will watch you lovingly and sympathetically, and hope and pray for your success.”
This letter was unsigned. Wint read it a second time, and then with tense, stiff fingers he tore it into little bits and dropped these bits into a wide, brass cuspidor beside his chair. As the scraps of paper fluttered from his hand, he clenched his fists; and he looked about to see if any one had been watching.