“Wouldn’t it be bully,” says I, “if we could bring Tom and his grandpa together. For the kid needs a home. And Mr. Weckler probably would be glad to have him here.”
Getting the whole story, Mrs. Clayton began crying, so great was her joy. If the daughter had written home for help, the letter never had been delivered, the housekeeper declared.
“Oh!” she concluded, dabbing at her eyes. And there was a look on her face that made me think of summer sunshine. “Mr. Weckler will be so happy. For he had mourned over his lost daughter for years. I know, too, that he has tried hard to find her, but without success.”
We talked then of how we could bring the kid and his grandpa together. And learning that the grandson was tending store for us, less than a block away, Mrs. Clayton excitedly put on her hat and hurried down the street. But in her eagerness to see him she had no intention, of course, of saying anything to him about our plans. It was too soon. Afterwards I got a kick out of Tom’s story of how a queer-acting customer breezed into the store, and instead of giving an order stood looking at him as though she wanted to jump over the counter and hug him. As a matter of fact, I suspect that Mrs. Clayton did want to hug him. Women are that way. And all wrapped up in Mr. Weckler, she was thinking, of course, of the happy days that were coming, with an old man’s mind at ease, and a young heir stationed in the home of his people where he belonged.
At eight o’clock I skinned out for the depot. And pretty soon the train pulled in. Poppy got his eyes on me as he came down the steps with his suit case. And I didn’t have to take a second look at him to know that his selling trip had been a fizzle, as I had suspected from the telegram. For his downcast face told the story. So, as soon as we got together, I hurriedly dished out to him the good news of Mr. Pennykorn’s unexpected offer. By signing the paper, I ran on, we’d get our money back and two hundred dollars to boot. More than that, there would be a general squaring-up all round.
“Lovely,” says Poppy, as we hurried down the street, “if—”
“If what?”
“There isn’t a nigger in the fence.”
“Everything will be put down in black and white,” I tried to quiet his suspicions. “So we’ll know exactly what we’re signing.”
“And all we get clear is two hundred dollars, huh?”