But the letter which I had taken from that dead man I had with me, and here it is now. When I visited Temple Camp upon the urgent plea of my old pal Skeezeks, I claimed the two hundred and seven dollars, but it was not mine.
It wasn’t the dead man’s either.
Now listen to this water-soaked letter, or as much of it as I can make out:
—hundred dol—is a good deal of money. — to —be careful. —such places— are likely —get robbed.
thought you—glad—get the ring. —wear —on second finger of left hand —war. —these fifty years. —real cameo—head— Lincoln. —getting along—to—make two ends meet—to each one who left our village——
There is quite a lot more, but I can’t make it out.
Well, kids, I’ve studied that letter like a spelling lesson and this is what I make out of it. I can kind of see a picture of an old fellow that fought in the Civil War. I don’t know who he is or where he is. But I can see him in an old faded blue uniform. I kind of like him. Look in the fire, every one of you, and keep your eyes fixed on the blaze. See him? I do. I can see him just as plain—poor old codger. Funny thing, a camp-fire, isn’t it? I can see him better now than I could before. He’s got white hair and he’s writing a letter to that kid of his in France and telling him to be careful of that money. He’s having a hard time trying to make two ends meet. Poor old fellow, he’s warning that son of his about places in France where soldiers get robbed. I’ve seen some of those places, sailors’ hang-outs, in Brest, and I can back him up there.
I have a kind of hunch that the old fellow—put some more wood on, Roy—I have a kind of a hunch that he sent the kid a ring, a cameo ring, with the head of President Lincoln on it. I can see old honest Abe now—right there where the new sticks are blazing up. Huh? Maybe it’s only a crazy notion; what do you say? But I’ve doped out a kind of a notion that that old fellow got the ring when he started off to war; that somebody or other presented one to each fellow that left the village. I’d give a doughnut to know where that village is.
Anyway, the old man wore it on the second finger of his left hand and I kind of think he wanted that kid of his to do the same—over there in the trenches.
Maybe I’m just a sort of a day dreamer, but that’s the picture I’ve had in my mind ever since I was fishing with Jake Holden. And it seems to all fit together now when I look right there in that blaze. Pretty good camp-fire yarn, hey? Not so worse? Just look into the fire yourselves and think about that letter. Nothing but a kind of fancy, hey? Faces in the blaze and all that sort of stuff. Never saw me get sentimental before, did you—Skeezeks?