PHILADELPHIA.
August, 1888.
[DEAR FAMILY:]
The St. Nicholas people sent me a check for $50 for
the "pirate" story. It would be insupportable affectation to
say that I was not delighted. Jennings Crute and I were
waiting for breakfast when I found the letter. I opened it
very slowly, for I feared they would bluff me with some letter
about illustrations or
revision, or offering me a reduced subscription to the
magazine. There was a letter inside and a check. I read the
letter before I looked at the check, which I supposed would be
for $30, as the other story was valued at $20. The note said
that a perfect gentleman named Chichester would be pleased if
I would find enclosed a check for $50. I looked at Jenny
helplessly, and said, "It's for fifty, Jenny." Crute had an
insane look in his eyes as he murmured "half a hundred dollars,
and on your day off, too." Then I sat down suddenly and
wondered what I would buy first, and Crute sat in a dazed
condition, and abstractedly took a handful of segars out of
the box dear old Dad gave me. As I didn't say anything, he
took another handful, and then sat down and gazed at the check
for five minutes in awe. After breakfast I calculated how
much I would have after I paid my debts. I still owe say $23,
and I have some shoes to pay for and my hair to cut. I had a
wild idea of going over to New York and buying some stocks,
but I guess I'll go to Bond's and Baker's instead.
I'm going down street now to see if Drexel wants to
borrow any ready money-on the way down I will make purchases
and pay bills so that my march will be a triumphal procession.
I got a story on the front page this morning about an
explosion at Columbia Avenue Station — I went out on it with
another man my senior in years and experience, whom Watrous
expected to write the story while I hustled for facts. When
we got back I had all the facts, and what little he had was
incorrect — so I said I would dispense with his services and
write the story myself. I did it very politely, but it
queered the man before the men, and Watrous grew very
sarcastic at
his expense. Next time Andy will know better and let me get
my own stories alone.
Your Millionaire Son,
DICK.
I'm still the "same old Dick"; not proud a bit.
This was my mother's reply:
