“I shall put it,” said the child, “in red ink, in my Vallable Inf’mation book. It’s a vallable inf’mation.”
“It would be, if it was true.”
“An’ if it isn’t true, it’s a vallable inf’mation. I’ll put it down that way.”
“I would,” advised Barbara gloomily. Then she repented herself and stooped to kiss the child’s quivering lips. “Anyway,” she said, “I love you; and you didn’t mean to lose the letter.”
After Jimmy’s inquisitive blue eyes were tight shut that night, Barbara examined the blurred sheet once more, holding it between her eyes and the bright light of the lamp. A word here and there appeared to emerge from the chaos, where the sharp penpoint had bitten the paper.
“... never forgotten,” was tolerably distinct. Then followed a hopeless blur of brown earth stains and purple ink. But further down the page she read,
“Write—if you——”
That was all, except his name, “David Whitcomb,” at the foot of the page.
The postmark had resisted the spoiling of both rain and mould, and read distinctly, as Al Hewett had declared, “Tombstone, Arizona,” in a blurred circle, with the date “April 2” and the hour of stamping “2-P.M.”