"Right as right could be, Mother," he admitted."Your figgers was a few hundred thousand out of the way, maybe, but barrin' that you was perfectly right.""Well, I'm glad to hear you say so for once in your life.Albert,"holding up the envelope, "do you know what this is?"Albert, much puzzled, admitted that he did not.His grandmother put down the book, opened the envelope and took from it a slip of paper.
"And can you guess what THIS is?" she asked.Albert could not guess.
"It's a check, that's what it is.It's the first six months'
royalties, that's what they call 'em, on that beautiful book of yours.And how much do you suppose 'tis?"Albert shook his head."Twenty-five dollars?" he suggested jokingly.
"Twenty-five dollars! It's over twenty-five HUNDRED dollars.It's twenty-eight hundred and forty-three dollars and sixty-five cents, that's what it is.Think of it! Almost three thousand dollars!
And Zelotes prophesied that 'twouldn't be more than--"Her husband held up his hand."Sh-sh! Sh-sh, Mother," he said.
"Don't get started on what I prophesied or we won't be through till doomsday.I'll give in right off that I'm the worst prophet since the feller that h'isted the 'Fair and Dry' signal the day afore Noah's flood begun.You see," he explained, turning to Albert, "your grandma figgered out that you'd probably clear about half a million on that book of poetry, Al.I cal'lated 'twan't likely to be much more'n a couple of hundred thousand, so--""Why, Zelotes Snow! You said--"
"Yes, yes.So I did, Mother, so I did.You was right and I was wrong.Twenty-eight hundred ain't exactly a million, Al, but it's a darn sight more than I ever cal'lated you'd make from that book.
Or 'most anybody else ever made from any book, fur's that goes," he added, with a shake of the head."I declare, I--I don't understand it yet.And a poetry book, too! Who in time BUYS 'em all? Eh?"Albert was looking at the check and the royalty statement.
"So this is why I couldn't get any satisfaction from the publisher,"he observed."I wrote him two or three times about my royalties, and he put me off each time.I began to think there weren't any."Captain Zelotes smiled."That's your grandma's doin's," he observed."The check came to us a good while ago, when we thought you was--was--well, when we thought--""Yes.Surely, I understand," put in Albert, to help him out.
"Yes.That's when 'twas.And Mother, she was so proud of it, because you'd earned it, Al, that she kept it and kept it, showin'
it to all hands and--and so on.And then when we found out you wasn't--that you'd be home some time or other--why, then she wouldn't let me put it in the bank for you because she wanted to give it to you herself.That's what she said was the reason.Ipresume likely the real one was that she wanted to flap it in my face every time she crowed over my bad prophesyin', which was about three times a day and four on Sundays.""Zelotes Snow, the idea!"
"All right, Mother, all right.Anyhow, she got me to write your publisher man and ask him not to give you any satisfaction about those royalties, so's she could be the fust one to paralyze you with 'em.And," with a frank outburst, "if you ain't paralyzed, Al, I own up that _I_ am.Three thousand poetry profits beats me.
_I_ don't understand it."
His wife sniffed."Of course you don't," she declared."But Albert does.And so do I, only I think it ought to have been ever and ever so much more.Don't you, yourself, Albert?"The author of The Lances of Dawn was still looking at the statement of its earnings.
"Approximately eighteen thousand sold at fifteen cents royalty," he observed."Humph! Well, I'll be hanged!""But you said it would be twenty-five cents, not fifteen,"protested Olive."In your letter when the book was first talked about you said so."Albert smiled."Did I?" he observed."Well, I said a good many things in those days, I'm afraid.Fifteen cents for a first book, especially a book of verse, is fair enough, I guess.But eighteen thousand SOLD! That is what gets me.""You mean you think it ought to be a lot more.So do I, Albert, and so does Rachel.Why, we like it a lot better than we do David Harum.That was a nice book, but it wasn't lovely poetry like yours.And David Harum sold a million.Why shouldn't yours sell as many? Only eighteen thousand--why are you lookin' at me so funny?"Her grandson rose to his feet."Let's let well enough alone, Grandmother," he said."Eighteen thousand will do, thank you.
I'm like Grandfather, I'm wondering who on earth bought them."Mrs.Snow was surprised and a little troubled.
"Why, Albert," she said, "you act kind of--kind of queer, seems to me.You talk as if your poetry wasn't beautiful.You know it is.
You used to say it was, yourself."
He interrupted her."Did I, Grandmother?" he said."All right, then, probably I did.Let's walk about the old place a little.Iwant to see it all.By George, I've been dreaming about it long enough!"There were callers that afternoon, friends among the townsfolk, and more still after supper.It was late--late for South Harniss, that is--when Albert, standing in the doorway of the bedroom he nor they had ever expected he would occupy again, bade his grandparents good night.Olive kissed him again and again and, speech failing her, hastened away down the hall.Captain Zelotes shook his hand, opened his mouth to speak, shut it again, repeated both operations, and at last with a brief, "Well, good night, Al," hurried after his wife.Albert closed the door, put his lamp upon the bureau, and sat down in the big rocker.
