The inside of the shack was poor and incredibly dirty. There was a cook stove in the middle of the floor that smoked. It must have been smoking for years, because the ceiling and walls were black and covered with soot. There were no curtains on the windows. The floor was black, and there was a heap of tools in one corner and a pile of wood in the other. There were a few chairs that looked like the antique chairs that Mom had in the bedrooms at home, but they had no seats and the wood was dark and furry with dirt. Half a loaf of bread stood on a small table together with an empty meat wrapper, half a pound of lard, and a dirty frying pan. A cup and a plate and a knife stood by, looking as if they had been used again and again without washing. Janie groaned as she thought of how she hated to wash dishes. “Dear Lord,” she prayed. “If You get us out of this mess, I’ll never complain about washing dishes again. I never loved and appreciated a clean house as much as I do this minute.”
What a relief to hear Dad’s hearty voice in the yard! Davey scampered along beside him, feeling important. “Well, well, Mr. Mott. You had quite a fire, I see.” He looked at his black-faced children in amazement. “What happened?” he asked. They all started to answer at once.
“Just a minute,” he said, “let Dor tell me.” Dor took a breath and recited what had happened from the first wisp of smoke to the face washing. When she finished Dad looked very serious. “Mom is waiting for you children in the car,” he said. “She’ll drive you home.” They said “Good-by,” and hurried off.
Daddy turned to Mr. Mott. “I think you should have a doctor,” he said. “Will you let me call one for you?” The old man looked feeble lying there, and suddenly he seemed shrunken and pathetic.
“The fact is,” he said, “I haven’t any money. I have no money to call a doctor, and I won’t take charity. My father lived on this land, and now I’m going to lose it because I can’t pay my taxes. It’s a dang shame, that’s what it is.” He blew his nose fiercely.
“Now, Mr. Mott, don’t worry about that now. Lie still and rest a bit.”
“I feel fine now. Pshaw, I just lost my breath in the smoke. It does me good to talk, Mr. Murray. I don’t mind talking.” He sat up on the cot. “I tell you, sir, it isn’t right. They can’t do this to a man. We used to own a whole section of land, and now all I have left is this little piece around the house. I’m going to lose this too, because I can’t pay my taxes. Why, my father owned the finest house in the hereabouts. He owned a good deal of land too. I’ve got some papers over there on the desk I wish you’d look at. They’ll prove what I say is true.” He pointed to a heap of messy looking rubbish piled up on a flat topped desk in the corner. “Right there you’ll find a letter that my father got from the governor of the state in 1852.” Mr. Murray hesitated. “Go on,” urged Mr. Mott. “Find it. I want you to read it.”
The papers were yellow with age, calenders and advertisements for patent medicines were unclassified. There were old bread wrappers and samples of unused wall paper. Finally Mr. Murray found the letter. He took it over to the door and looked at it carefully. He didn’t read it. He just looked at it, and his excitement grew, for marching across the top of the envelope were three dark blue one-cent stamps. There was a portrait of George Washington in the center of each one. The cancellation marks were not heavy, and though they were dusty and old, they were in good condition.
“Mr. Mott,” he said. “Never mind about the letter. I think we’ve found the solution to your problem right here on the envelope.” He pointed to the stamps. “These are valuable,” he said. “I happen to know that they have a catalogue value of one hundred and fifty dollars apiece. You won’t get full value for them, of course, but you’ll get enough money to pay your back taxes, and you’ll save your land. You’ll even have a little money left over.”
Mr. Mott rose up and took the letter and looked at it. He blinked. “Are you sure, Mr. Murray?”