“It's a check, that's what it is. It's the first six months' royalties, that's what they call 'em, on that beautiful book of yours. And how much do you suppose 'tis?”
Albert shook his head. “Twenty-five dollars?” he suggested jokingly.
“Twenty-five dollars! It's over twenty-five HUNDRED dollars. It's twenty-eight hundred and forty-three dollars and sixty-five cents, that's what it is. Think of it! Almost three thousand dollars! And Zelotes prophesied that 'twouldn't be more than—”
Her husband held up his hand. “Sh-sh! Sh-sh, Mother,” he said. “Don't get started on what I prophesied or we won't be through till doomsday. I'll give in right off that I'm the worst prophet since the feller that h'isted the 'Fair and Dry' signal the day afore Noah's flood begun. You see,” he explained, turning to Albert, “your grandma figgered out that you'd probably clear about half a million on that book of poetry, Al. I cal'lated 'twan't likely to be much more'n a couple of hundred thousand, so—”
“Why, Zelotes Snow! You said—”
“Yes, yes. So I did, Mother, so I did. You was right and I was wrong. Twenty-eight hundred ain't exactly a million, Al, but it's a darn sight more than I ever cal'lated you'd make from that book. Or 'most anybody else ever made from any book, fur's that goes,” he added, with a shake of the head. “I declare, I—I don't understand it yet. And a poetry book, too! Who in time BUYS 'em all? Eh?”
Albert was looking at the check and the royalty statement.
“So this is why I couldn't get any satisfaction from the publisher,” he observed. “I wrote him two or three times about my royalties, and he put me off each time. I began to think there weren't any.”
Captain Zelotes smiled. “That's your grandma's doin's,” he observed. “The check came to us a good while ago, when we thought you was—was—well, when we thought—”
“Yes. Surely, I understand,” put in Albert, to help him out.