“Hey, are you Mr. Martin?” Abie growled when he saw her.
Joan explained that Mr. Martin was her brother and that she had come in his place, as he was busy on an assignment.
“Your brother—he signed this, hey?” Abie brandished a bit of paper under her nose. He was a small man, in shirt sleeves and a vest, with a heavy gold chain across his plump stomach. The chain was wobbling, he was so angry. “This boy here—” he indicated Eric with a jerk of his pudgy thumb—“he wants to buy violin off me and he gives me check for twenty-five dollars—and it ain’t signed.”
Not signed! Why, she had watched Uncle John sign it. Anyway, how did Eric happen to have the check? Had the awards really been mixed, after all? Perhaps, even now, Jimmy was speeding toward Cleveland to the big game. Or—perhaps Eric had stolen the check, for some reason. But surely he had plenty of money. He looked especially stylish in the sweater and hose-to-match set he was wearing to-day. But how did he get the check?
She remembered having seen Jimmy’s name on it. And now, Eric had it, and somehow it was blank where Uncle John had signed his name.
It certainly was a mystery. The word reminded her of Dummy. Could he have mixed the prizes, thinking that he would get the paper in bad with the public? The mistake might, too, for, of course, a paper awarding prizes ought to award them correctly. Dummy could certainly think up strange things to do—for she was sure he had had a hand in this.
“Is this Miss Martin?” Eric asked. Didn’t he recognize her in the old middy? “You’re the girl who came to see me, aren’t you? Will you kindly tell this man that your brother did sign this check when he sent it to Jimmy, and that it’s perfectly O.K.?”
“My brother is Mr. Martin,” Joan smiled. “But not the one you think. That’s my uncle. The girl called Tim to the phone, and he wasn’t there, and I got your message to come around. But—” she broke off her explanation. “The check was signed. I saw it. It was sent to Jimmy, though.” And she had been so anxious that no more mistakes should be made.
“I can explain,” the boy began. “You see, I was disappointed when I didn’t get first prize, because I wanted, not the honor, but the money.” He looked embarrassed but went on. “My music teacher told me there was a really good violin here at Abie’s shop. It was twenty-five dollars, and I have only a small allowance. My parents wouldn’t get it for me. They didn’t know I’d been taking secret lessons since Christmas. Professor Hofman gives them to me, free. Mother wants me to be an athlete and she suggested my trying in the contest, and I did in hopes of winning the money.”
Abie was getting impatient during this recital. Evidently he had heard the explanation before. He was waving his hands. “It ain’t signed,” he muttered.