“My error,” said Brent, leisurely withdrawing his charring shoe, and at the same time taking an envelope from his pocket. “I didn’t mention this before the boys, not even to you, Tommy. You remember about the targets; how each one had four bullet holes? And I said there must have been four at camp—at the finish? Clever, I thought. Well, here’s a letter in an old battered envelope, postmarked—let’s see—last November—yop, November three—and that would be about a year or so after the place here was closed up. Well, the postmaster in Harkness gave this to me when we came through this evening and asked me if we had anybody of this name up here. Peter Northrop. It’s addressed to Peter Northrop, care McClintick’s hunting camp, Leatherstocking, New York. You’ve got to hand it to Uncle Sam for finding people. This letter has been all over creation—came here from Leatherville, New Jersey. Well, the envelope was all falling to pieces—see? So I dumped the letter out and took a squint at it. I think it shows there were four people here. Funny, huh? Want to read it?”
CHAPTER XVI—SOMEBODY’S SON
I arose and took from him the envelope which he held in his extended hand; he was too lazy to get up and hand it to me. It was very much the worse for its travels, almost in shreds. It was addressed by an illiterate hand and bore several official stampings of Wrong address and Not Found. But Uncle Sam, that invincible errand boy, had left it at the right place at last, though all too late. It contained a letter written with pencil on a cheap tablet page of lined stationery. To me there is something fine about an old travel-worn letter, bearing the honorable scars of its battles with the world, and bereft of its timeliness, finally reaching its intended destination. Be that as it might, I lifted the folded contents from the envelope without any feeling that I was violating the privacy of personal mail. And holding it down in the light of the fire, I read:
Coover’s falls, N. Dakota.
My dear Son
Now it is so menny months I did not here I must say it looks like you hav forgot yure own mother. I look for the telegraph paper that Mister McClintik sent but can’t find so try to think of the address were you are. You no you said you would be back soon this time now it is months and I don’t even here. You said it would do you good in the woods just a month but I know you would not stay in the Woods in all this cold. I am spry only for my rumatiz that is so bad in the damp wether. I look for the ducks but Missus Boardman said you decided its silly to send them so far. Now if I knew where Mr. McClintik have his house I would mail this there. You are a bad boy and like your father must be always gadding over the earth but a good boy to so I tell Missus Boardman. I pray God you get this and it finds my boy well. Every day I say you will be here.
love from your Mother
If an old travel-worn envelope has a certain appeal, how much is that appeal heightened by the human touch, the pathos, of such an enclosure! Some poor old woman reaching a trembling hand out into the great world, groping for a lost son! Perhaps the very heart which prompted that all but hopeless inquiry was still. The stout heart that protested its loyalty in the very face of Mrs. Boardman. Perhaps the “rumatiz” had done its work. And still, where was this wandering son who was so much like his father?
“Looks as if there were four people here instead of three all right, doesn’t it?” drawled Brent. “In looking over the targets I hit the bull’s-eye—as you might say. The old gent, little Rollie, Weston, was it?—and Peter Northrop. It really doesn’t make any difference; I don’t have to cook for them. One, more or less, is no matter—as long as they’re all gone.” He considered the fire musingly. “But it’s kind of interesting when things fit together like that, huh.... Might drop a line to the old lady, huh?”
“Leave that to me, I certainly will,” I said. “There are two things I have to do; speak to Rivers and write to Mrs. Northrop.”
“But how about this mystery?” Tom asked. “So far as the vision, or whatever you call it, is concerned, it was just a dream. Old man McClintick didn’t walk out of his picture, that’s sure.”
“He might have at that,” Brent drawled. “He was always pretty hard to hold back, I guess. Maybe he was dodging the income tax people.... Turn that log over, will you Tommy?”
Ignoring his levity, Tom fixed the fire.