“I’m a happy man,” says he, “because, after a dozen years, I’ve got my son back again. In that dozen years,” he says, “I’ve been working and fighting and starving and risking death for my son, but maybe it would have been better if I’d stayed home and got a job and been right by his side. But there was a time when I was sore in my heart because his mother died.” He stopped just a second. Then he went on. “I couldn’t bear to stay still, so I put my little son in a school and went off to Alaska. I thought I’d find gold there, but I didn’t find enough. After that I went to South America and to Africa and to China, and all over the world, always keeping my son in schools, and not seeing him nor scarcely ever writing to him. But I loved him just the same—like a father ought to. But I was set on coming home to him rich, so he’d be proud of me. That was wrong. I know it now. He’d have been proud of me anyhow, because he’s that kind. Well, I thought I was dying, and sent a friend to take my son to a man that should have looked after him—and that man died, but I got well. Today I came back and found my son, and saw him for the first time since he was in dresses. I found he had made friends, four friends, who had done for him more than I had ever done. These friends had worked for him. These friends had found him alone in a big house, practically a prisoner, not knowing who he was or why he was there. My boy was in a bad mix-up, I can tell you. And I was far away. Well, these four friends, just out of the goodness of their hearts, went to work, and solved the mystery that was surrounding my son, and proved who he was, and have put him in the way of being heir to a great deal of money. Not that that matters now, for I found my mine at last and have ten times as much as Mr. Wigglesworth—”
He stopped. “But here’s to-day’s Trumpet. Let me read to you the real story. Then I want to say to you ladies that this contest has come out just the way it should have. It has proved that neither side is better than the other. It has proved that Wicksville ought to be proud of you, and that you ought to be so proud of each other that you’d join together and not be Home Culturers or Literary Circlers, but just one big club—The Wicksville Women’s Club, with everybody a member and working hard for the benefit of the town and of everybody in it.”
Then he read, slow and emphatic, the story of Rock. He read how we had found him, and about all we had done, and about the paper Mr. Wigglesworth left, and about how we had got the paper. And—this was news to all of us but Mark—that Rock was Mr. Wigglesworth’s grandson, and Rock’s mother was Mr. Wigglesworth’s daughter, who had married Mr. Armitage against her father’s will, and he wouldn’t ever have anything to do with her again.
Well, people’s eyes almost popped out of their heads when they heard what had been going on right under their heads. When Mr. Armitage was done reading he laid his hand on Mark’s shoulder and says, “Here’s the boy that puzzled it out.”
“Binney and Plunk and Tallow did as m-m-much as me,” says Mark.
“Yes,” says Mr. Armitage, turning to us, “and I want to thank them, publicly, too. Four of the squarest, nerviest, cleverest boys I ever saw.”
“And now,” says he, “what do you ladies think? Won’t it be better to have one big club, working for the good of everybody, than two clubs pulling against each other?”
Mrs. Strubber looked at Mrs. Bobbin and Mrs. Bobbin looked back; then—and there was streaks down their faces where the tears had been running—they got up all at once and walked toward each other and shook hands.
That ended that.
But us fellows had a hard time getting away. Everybody wanted to shake hands and have us tell about it, and taffy us, but we did wriggle through, with Rock and his father following us, and sneaked to the office. And there we had a regular reunion. I tell you Mr. Armitage was a fine man, and he had a mess of adventure stories to tell that just lifted the hair off from your head.