"I'm sure I'm very much obliged, Mr. Watkins," said Parley.

"Oh, botheration!" cried the ghost. "_Mister Watkins!_ Look here, Parley, we're both Blue Haven boys--somewhat far apart in time, it's true, but none the less Blue-Havenites. Don't 'mister' me. Call me Billie."

"All right, Billie," said Parley. "I'll go you, and after it's all over I'll be as much of a boy as I can."

"That's right," said the ghost of old Billie Watkins, and then he departed. At least I presume he departed, for from that time on to the day of the examinations Parley did not hear his voice again.

What happened then can best be explained by the narration of an interview between Parley and the ghost of old Billie Watkins on the night of the concluding examination-day. Sick, tired, and flunked, poor Parley went to his room to bemoan his unhappy fate. In no single branch had he been successful. Apparently his reliance upon the a.s.sistance of Watkins's ghost had proved a mistake--as, in fact, it was, although poor old Watkins was, as it turned out, no more to blame than if he had never volunteered his services.

Flinging himself down in despair, Parley gave way to his feelings.

"That's what I get for being an a.s.s and believing in ghosts. I might have known it was all a dream," he groaned.

"It wasn't," said the unmistakable voice of Watkins, from the chair, which had been repaired.

Parley jumped as if stung.

"You're a gay old valedictorian, you are!" he cried, glowering at the chair. "Next time you have a Christmas gift for mankind, take it and burn it, will you? A pretty fix you've got me into."

"I'm sorry, Parley," began the ghost. "I--"

"Sorry be hanged!" cried Parley. "If you hadn't made me believe in you, I might have crammed up on my Greek and Latin anyhow. As it is, it's a Waterloo all around."

"If you won't listen--" the ghost began again.

"I've listened enough!" roared Parley, thoroughly enraged. "And if there was any way in which I could get at you, I'd make you smart for your low-down trick!"

"To think," moaned the ghost, "that I should see the day when old Billie Watkins was accused of a low-down trick--and I tried to help him, too."

"Tried to help me?" sneered Parley. "How the deuce do you make that out?

You didn't come within a mile of me, and I've not only flunked, but I've lost a half-dozen bets on my ability to pa.s.s, just because I believed in you."

"I _was_ within a mile of you," retorted the ghost, indignantly. "I was right square in front of you."

"Then why the d.i.c.kens didn't you answer the questions? I read 'em out so loud that old Professor Wiggins sat on me for it."

"I know you did, Parley," said the ghost, meekly. "And I'd have answered 'em if I could. But I couldn't."

"Couldn't?" cried Parley.

"Regularly just couldn't," said the ghost.

"A valedictorian couldn't answer a question on a Freshman's paper?"

cried Parley, scornfully.

"No," said the ghost.

"Fine memory you must have! Do you know what a-b, ab, spells?" sneered Parley.

"I do, of course," retorted the ghost, angrily. "A-b, ab, spells nothing. But that doesn't prove anything. I remember all I ever learned at Blue Haven, but I've made a discovery, Parley, which lets me out. You ought to have told me, but, my dear fellow, college begins now just about where it used to leave off."

"What?" queried Parley, doubtfully. "What do you mean?"

"Why, it's plain enough, Jack! Can't you see?" said Watkins. "What would make a valedictorian in my day won't help a Freshman through his first year now. Times have changed."

"Oh, that's it--eh?" said Parley, somewhat mollified. "It isn't only the fellows that have changed and their sports, but the curriculum--eh? That it?"

"Precisely," rejoined old Billie, with a sigh of relief that Parley should understand him. "I'm beginning to understand, my boy, why you fellows have to be little men and not boys. No average boy could pa.s.s any such stiff paper as that, and I found myself as ignorant as you are."

"Thanks," said Parley, with a short laugh. "I think you ought to have found it out before leading me into accepting your Christmas gift, though."

"It was you who should have found out and told me," retorted the ghost.

"All I can say is that in my day I'd have got you through with flying colors."

"Well, I'm much obliged," said Parley. "I'll get out of it somehow, but it means hard work; only, Mr. Spook, don't be so free with your Christmas gifts another time."

"I won't, Jack," said the spirit--"that is, I won't if you'll forgive me and stop calling me mister. Call me Billie again, and show you've forgiven me."

"All right, Billie, my boy," said Parley. "We'll call it square."

And the unhappy ghost wandered off into the night, leaving Parley to fight his battles alone. Whether he has turned up again or not, I am not aware, but, from my observation of Jack Parley's ways ever since, I think he really did learn something from his contact with Billie Watkins's ghost. He has been a good deal of a boy ever since. As for Watkins, I hope that the genial old soul off in s.p.a.ce somewhere has also learned something from Jack. If the old chaps and the youngsters can only get together and appreciate one another's good points, and how each has had to labor towards the same end under possibly different conditions, there will be a greater harmony and sympathy between them, and they will discover that, in spite of differing times and differing customs, 'way down at bottom they are the same old wild animals, after all. There is no more delightful spectacle anywhere than that to be seen at a college gathering, where the patriarchs of the fifties and the Freshmen of the present join hand-in-hand and lark it together, and it is this spirit that makes for the glory of Alma Mater everywhere.

So, after all, perhaps the meeting of Jack Parley and old Billie Watkins's ghost had its value. For my part, I can only hope that it had, and leave them both with my blessing.

An Unmailed Letter

An Unmailed Letter

BEING A CHRISTMAS TALE OF SOME SIGNIFICANCE

[Ill.u.s.tration: Decorative I]

called the other night at the home of my friend Jack Chetwood, and found him, as usual, engaged in writing. Chetwood's name is sufficiently well known to all who read books and periodicals these days to spare me the necessity of adverting to his work, or of attempting to describe his personality. It is said that Chetwood writes too much. Indeed, I am one of those who have said so, and I have told _him_ so. His response has always been that I--and others who have ventured to remonstrate--did not understand. He had to keep at it, he said. Couldn't help himself. Didn't write for fun, but because he had to. Always did his best, anyhow, and what more can be asked of any man? Surely a defence of this nature takes the wind out of a critic's sails.

"Busy, Jack?" said I, as I entered his sanctum.

"Yes," said he. "Very."

"Very well," said I. "Don't let me disturb you. I only happened in, anyhow. Nothing in particular to say; but, Jacky, why don't you quit for a little? You're worn and pale and thin. What's the use of breaking down? Don't pose with me. You don't have to write all the time."

He smiled wanly at me.