“What do you value this at, Madam Tallafferr?” asked the physician.
Her reply came without hesitation. “Eighteen hundred and forty-five dollars and fifty cents.”
The Little Red Doctor's jaw fell. “Eighteen—did I understand you to say eighteen hundred?”
“And forty-five dollars and fifty cents. That is the minimum. It is perhaps worth more.”
“Er—yes. Certainly. Very likely,” said the Little Red Doctor jerkily.
“I bid you good day, sirs,” said the Duchess. “You will, of course, exercise every care of General Jackson's letter.”
We bowed ourselves out. On the sidewalk we looked upon each other in dismay. “And Old Sally down to the last dollar,” said the Little Red Doctor, neglecting to mention that he had given her the dollar.
“Let's try the letter on the trade, anyway,” piped Boggs hopefully. “You can't tell but maybe it might be worth the money. Is there an autograph trade, dominie?”
In my capacity of omniscience, I chanced, happily for my reputation, to be informed upon this and to be able to make some definite suggestions. We went to Mr.
Barker's small and recherché curio shop, with the talisman. Mr. Barker did not bark. He purred. The substance of his purring was that while the letter was authentic beyond question and would be of interest to some Southern historical society, it could claim no special value. As for the prophetic feature, upon which so much stress had been laid, a mere opinion that, “Be it sooner or be it later, the moot question of State rights will demand a final settlement,” could hardly be regarded as an inspired forecast of the Civil War. However, should we say twenty-five dollars?