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June 1925
THE K I N G ’S B U S I N E S S
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SI F I N E G O L D v 1 OR THE PEARL OF GREAT PRICE JOSEPH INE HOPE WESTERVELT 1 £ ±
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crawled in and added his work to th a t already done, and forced the door open. W illiam, who had a t -the moment wandered away a sho rt distance, did no t hear Jack H arm on’s exclamation of surprise upon opening the- old safe. In it was an envelope, quite bulky, and to H arm on’s u tte r amaze m ent it was addressed in th e handw riting of his old chum. It was old, bu t had been carefully preserved from th e damp ness about; how long it had been th ere he did no t know. His first thought wag to call to W illiam , b u t on second though t he quietly slipped it into his pocket and said nothing to the boy. Glad indeed was he for th is decision, when he discovered the contents. Backing out of th e hedge, he let W illiam crawl in to examine th e old post-office box, and then it was carefully closed up as it was before, for W illiam wished it so., It seemed to Jack Harmon as if he would never have an oppor tu n ity to investigate th a t mysterious envelope w ithout the keen eyes of th e boy bent inquiringly upon him ; not until
(Continued from last m onth) CHAPTER 6 THE ODD POST OFFICE
|H E year th a t W illiam finished p rep arato ry School, he and Uncle Jack went to th e old Morehouse homestead for th e summer. E arly th a t spring the house, which usually stood vacant during the w inter, had in some unaccountable way caught fire, and as it was during th e night, it burned down completely before help arrived. Most of th e houses along th a t p a rt of the hay were vacant every w inter, except for an occasional keeper. In th e summer tim e the houses were all gay w ith ligh t and laughter. When Uncle Jack and W illiam arrived, the work on the new and smaller cottage had already been begun. The two made themselves com fortable in th e fine old barn, which, standing some distance from the house, had escaped destruction, as did also th e boat and bath
they had gone to bed and W illiam was j3ound asleep did th e opportunity come. Jack Harmon crept out of bed, climbed from the loft of the barn, and w ith the aid of a candle read the letter. He felt hot and cold by tu rn s;, he looked a t the name signed a t th e end. It was th a t of his old chum, as was the handw riting. He looked a t the date and it stunned him to read thereon th e date of th a t first w inter he took little Billie Bob to his home, when he adopted th e little fellow and gave him his own name. His hand trem bled as he began to read the well-known handw riting. “Dear Jack ,” it began, “ I have no way of know ing whether you will ever receive and read this or not. Sometimes
house. W illiam had little remembrance of the old place, for he was quite young the few times he visited his g randp ar ents in th eir summer home. Upon Jack Harmon memories crowded thick and fast. Fo r several summers during his boyhood his parents had ren ted the fine old home next to the Morehouse home stead, and it was th ere th a t th e lasting friendship began between him self and W ill Morehouse. They had boated, bathed, played, and planned together. F o r W illiam ’s sake the older man th rew himself into the old-time sports ;as much as he could, at th e same time overseeing th e erection of th e new building, th is being th e chief purpose o f his visit to the bay. W illiam, because
A refusal to walk in the revealed will of God always b r i n g s disaster. No one can afford to let earthly t i e s c ome between them and God’s plan for their life. If they do, it will bring dis aster to themselves and the ones whom they sought to please.
I th ink you will, other times I hope you won’t, bu t I am going to w rite it anyway. Sometimes I am sure you know th a t I was not drowned, and then again I do not know. I was a coward, too big a coward to do it. Oh, I deserved to die, bu t Jack, I couldn’t face the outcome. F o r two m iserable, wretched, haun ting years I have knocked about from one place to ano ther expecting to be found, to be dragged fo rth to disgrace and prison, and then I could stand it. no longer and I came back expecting to give myself up and found— bu t then you know what I found, fath er and mother dead, Myrtle dead also, and only Billie Bob left. My God! only Billie Bob left. I had killed them all. And then I found I had never been searched for, and I dis covered, how I shall not explain, th a t th e money had been tu rned over to th e church and no b reath of my disgrace had ever been in the papers, and th a t people tru ly believed me dead. “ I found th a t my fath er died a poor man, th a t he gave, when he though t I was dead, w hat he refused to give me when I pled w ith him th a t awful day. W hat a w retch I
o f th e associations, began to be more interested in his fath e r’s past life th a n a t any previous time, and asked end less questions about his boyhood as Uncle Jack knew it.: ’There was a fine old hedge- between the Morehouse place ¡and the adjoining one on the south, where Jack Harmon ¡spent his boyhood days. One day as they were coming from th e bathhouse along a path bordered by beautiful wild roses in full bloom, uncle Jack suddenly remembered the old “ post office” th a t he and W ill had made when they were (boys. It was a small discarded safe, and they had cut away the hedge a t one place and half buried th e old safe, care fully hiding th e ir work from view; many were th e letters •exchanged between the two boys. W hat made him think •of it now, he scarcely knew, bu t he did, and he told William •of it. Together they searched for the little 'sa fe in the ran k -overgrown hedge and were about to give up the quest when Jack Harmon shouted out, “E u rek a,” and w ith th e help •of th e ir knives they cu t th e ir way through th e old ru sty safe on th e ir side of the fence. W illiam tried to pry the .door o p e n , bu t did not succeed, and then Jack Harmon
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