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Bread On The Waters
by
“But he can show his accounts, mamma!” What are his accounts worth? He must show the vouchers, as they are called. He must show these people’s receipts, and what has become of these people; what they did with the money. He must show everything. Well, when the `Copperhead’ first spoke of it–that was a fortnight ago–papa was really pleased. For he said it would be a good chance to bring out a piece of war history. He said that in our Bureau we had never had any credit for the Rio Grande successes, that they were all our thunder; because THEN he could laugh about this horrid thing. He said the Navy had taken all the boners, while we deserved them all. And he said if these horrid `Copperhead’ and `Argus’ and `Scorpion’ people would only publish the vouchers half as freely as they published the charges, we should get a little of the credit that was our due.”
“Well, mamma, and what is the trouble now?”
“Why, papa was so sure that he would do nothing until an official call came. But on Monday it got into Congress. That hairy man from the Yellowstone brought in a resolution or something, and the Committee was ordered to inquire. And when the order came down, papa told Mr. Waltsingham to bring him the papers, and, Matty, the papers were not there!”
“Stolen!” cried Matty, understanding the crisis for the first time.
“Yes–perhaps–or lost–hidden somewhere. You have no idea of the work of those days night work and all that. Many a time your father did not undress for a week.”
“And now he must remember where he put a horrid pile of papers, eleven, twelve years ago. Mamma, that pile is stolen. That odious Greenhithe stole it. He lives in Philadelphia now, and he has put up these newspapers to this lie.”
Mr. Greenhithe was an underclerk in the Internal Improvement Bureau, who had shown an amount of attention to Miss Matty, which she had disliked and had refused to receive. She had always said he was bad and would come to a bad end, and when he was detected in a low trick, selling stationery which he had stolen from the supply room, and was discharged in disgrace, Matty had said it was good enough for him.
These were her reasons for pronouncing at once that he had stolen the vouchers and had started the rumors.
“I do not know. Papa does not know. He hardly tries to guess. He says either way it is bad. If the vouchers are stolen, he is in fault, for he is responsible for the archives; if he cannot produce the vouchers, then all the country is down on him for stealing. I only hope,” said poor Mrs. Molyneux, “that they won’t say our poor old wagon is a coach and six;” and this time she tried to smile.
And now she had told her story. All last night, while the children were asleep, Mr. Molyneux had been at the office, even till four o’clock in the morning, taking old dusty piles from their lairs and searching for those wretched vouchers. And mamma had been waiting–shall one not say, had been weeping?–here at home. That was the reason poor papa had looked so haggard at breakfast this morning.
This was all mamma had to tell. She had been to the office this morning, but papa would not let her stay. He must see all comers, just as if nothing had happened, was happening, or was going to happen.
Well! Matty did make her mother take off her jacket and her hat and her gloves. She even made her drink a glass of wine and lie down. And then the poor girl retired to her own room, with such appetite as she might for taking the last stitches in worsted work, for stippling in the lights into drawings, for writing the presentation lines in books, and for doing the thousand little niceties in the way of finishing touches which she had promised the children to do for them.