Their first impulse had been towards an outburst of laughter, but even before he produced his letter a certain truthful seriousness in his look had startled them. When he laid the envelope down each man caught his breath. It could not be denied that Jem Belter turned pale with emotion. Jem had never been one of the lucky ones.
“She let me read it,” said G. Selden, taking the letter from its envelope with great care. “And I said to her: 'Miss Vanderpoel, would you let me just show that to the boys the first night I go to Shandy's?' I knew she'd tell me if it wasn't all right to do it. She'd know I'd want to be told. And she just laughed and said: 'I don't mind at all. I like “the boys.” Here is a message to them. “Good luck to you all.”'”
“She said that?” from Nick Baumgarten.
“Yes, she did, and she meant it. Look at this.”
This was the letter. It was quite short, and written in a clear, definite hand.
“DEAR FATHER: This will be brought to you by Mr. G. Selden, of whom I have written to you. Please be good to him.
“Affectionately,
“BETTY.”
Each young man read it in turn. None of them said anything just at first. A kind of awe had descended upon them—not in the least awe of Vanderpoel, who, with other multi-millionaires, were served up each week with cheerful neighbourly comment or equally neighbourly disrespect, in huge Sunday papers read throughout the land—but awe of the unearthly luck which had fallen without warning to good old G. S., who lived like the rest of them in a hall bedroom on ten per, earned by tramping the streets for the Delkoff.
“That girl,” said G. Selden gravely, “that girl is a winner from Winnersville. I take off my hat to her. If it's the scheme that some people's got to have millions, and others have got to sell Delkoffs, that girl's one of those that's entitled to the millions. It's all right she should have 'em. There's no kick coming from me.”