ophesied 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. I presume 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 auth